


fine line

by suspendrs



Series: albums [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Arguing, Blood, Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Fighting, Fine Line, Implied Sexual Content, Jamaica, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, a truly inordinate amount of crying, dancing in kitchens, these tags are a fucking mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspendrs/pseuds/suspendrs
Summary: There’s still a lot of things they don’t talk about, a lot of things they don’t bring home with them at the end of the day, and a lot of things that don’t even need to be said. The world is the world and it sucks sometimes, but it’s far away when Harry’s at home and Louis’s here with him and none of it needs to matter when it could just as easily be ignored. Harry tries to open up sometimes, tries to bring Louis into his world, but Louis’s got a world of his own to tend to, and it feels like more often than not they are on two separate planets and the universe just keeps expanding.Or, a love three more years in the making, inspired by Harry’s sophomore album.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: albums [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566919
Comments: 48
Kudos: 269





	1. golden

**Author's Note:**

> i’m baaaack
> 
> everyone say thank u to the person on twitter who reminded me that i should do this. i’ve been really missing writing fic and harry happened to release this album on my last day of classes so i though eh, fuck my thesis, i’m gonna write this fic during my break.
> 
> i also have not had a proper chance to be creative since the summer so i really went all out for this boi- i decided to write this as a circular narrative, so when you finish the last chapter, you can come back and read the first chapter again and it’ll be like the story just keeps going. james joyce WHO
> 
> please do not translate, repost, or recreate this work in any way. thank you!   
> anyway here’s this, i hope you enjoy it.  
> xoxo liv

The air is warm in the way that feels like liquid sunshine, like the light itself is bathing Harry’s skin in the syrupy softness of its glow. The bedsheets tucked carefully over his naked shoulders make the heat just the slightest bit unbearable and as Harry swims lazily to the surface of his consciousness, he becomes aware of the fact that the sun is shining directly into his eyes, or it would be, if his eyes were open.

He doesn’t move for a while, taking inventory of himself without moving quite yet. He’s curled up like Louis is still in his arms, but he’s alone in the bed. Harry stretches one leg out slowly just to test his theory, and his toes encounter still warm but empty bedsheets where Louis should be. He considers burrowing a little deeper into his pillow and nodding off again, but his mind starts moving before he gets the chance, so he surrenders instead to the sunshine and lets himself drift.

A few years ago, the mere thought of waking up alone would have sent him into a tailspin. There was a time when he was so intertwined with Louis that it seemed like even their breathing needed to be perfectly in sync at all times or else everything might come crumbling down around them. They’ve grown up a good bit, though, and grown apart in a number of small, important ways, and Harry thinks it’s rather healthy that he’s glad to have the bed to himself right now so he can stretch out into Louis’s cooler side of the mattress. He doesn’t know where Louis is, or what he’s up to, but that’s okay; Harry will find him at some point, will give him a good morning kiss and ask him if he’s already had his tea, and Louis will probably say yes and offer to make him a cup, and then they’ll go and do whatever it is they each have to do for the day until they come back together at night to curl up around each other and go to sleep. It’s not quite the whirlwind, all encompassing love it used to be, and sometimes Harry wishes it could be again, but he understands why things have changed.

There’s still a lot of things they don’t talk about, a lot of things they don’t bring home with them at the end of the day, and a lot of things that don’t even need to be said. The world is the world and it sucks sometimes, but it’s far away when Harry’s at home and Louis’s here with him and none of it needs to matter when it could just as easily be ignored. Harry tries to open up sometimes, tries to bring Louis into his world, but Louis’s got a world of his own to tend to, and it feels like more often than not they are on two separate planets and the universe just keeps expanding.

He knows that things could be worse, hell, they _have_ been worse, but sometimes he wishes Louis would just let him inside. Just a few days ago, Louis finally came up with the title of his first album, Walls, and Harry thinks nothing has ever been so fitting.

Louis has been through so much in the past eight or nine years, has experienced so much heartbreak and trauma and pain, and it’s like he uses each and every experience as a new brick in the wall he constructs to keep the whole world out, including Harry. He holes himself in until the only person he has left to turn to is himself, and as hard as Harry tries to take the walls down brick by brick, Louis only ever lets him get a peek inside before he seals the holes again and shuts him out. 

Even then, though, even when Louis has convinced himself that he has no one in the world aside from himself, Harry loves him to pieces. Even as he tries to scale the walls and ends up with bloody hands and bruised knees he knows he’ll never stop, if only so that he can peek his head over the top sometimes to remind Louis how loved he really is, even when he feels all alone. He’s never alone, not really; even when he’s all hidden away behind all of his guards and barriers, he knows Harry’s sitting just on the other side, waiting for him to come back around.

The light in the bedroom shifts, and a shadow falls over Harry’s eyes, interrupting the bright sunlight that’s been turning the inside of his eyelids pink for however long he’s been awake. Harry blinks his eyes open slowly for the first time, looking up to find that Louis’s head is the thing obstructing the light from blinding Harry any further.

He’s out on the balcony, cigarette in one hand with his phone pinched between his shoulder and his ear. He’s laughing about something with whoever’s he’s talking to, lighting up his cigarette and then slipping his lighter back into his pocket, legs swinging idly where he’s sitting on the railing with his back to the door. Harry hates when he sits like that, because they’re on the second floor of the house and if Louis falls he’ll break his neck, not to mention that the railing is probably still slick from the rain last night, but Louis never listens when Harry tells him to get down.

Harry watches him for a while, heart beating in time with the gentle rhythm Louis’s socked heels are tapping against the iron railing. He blows a cloud of smoke into the air and then laughs again at something over the phone, throwing his head back and letting the sun spill through his hair in pieces and fragments while his shadow shifts over Harry’s gaze. Harry smiles, letting his eyes fall closed when Louis shifts again and the sunlight washes over Harry’s face again.

He ends up drifting off again for a little while, listening to the far away sound of Louis’s voice through the balcony door. He wakes up as Louis is crawling back into bed with him, his eyes fluttering open quickly as Louis takes back his rightful place from the pillow Harry’s been cuddling. Harry just smiles and tugs him closer, burrowing into his chest and going still when Louis’s arms settle around his shoulders, one hand burying itself automatically into Harry’s hair.

Louis’s legs are bare where they tangle with Harry’s but he’s still in the soft jumper he was wearing outside, meaning he just shucked his trackies and climbed back into bed. He feels and smells like sunshine and Harry can’t get close enough to him, his golden boy, his bright, beautiful sunshine boy.

They spend the rest of the morning curled up together, and some of the early afternoon, as well, until Louis’s stomach rumbles under Harry’s weight and he starts whining about wanting something to eat. That sunshiny feeling doesn’t leave Harry’s skin all day, and he’s so lucky to be able to love someone who wears sunlight like a sweet perfume, but he knows exactly how cold it can get; sometimes that brightness turns to murky darkness and it’s like winter in Louis’s arms, like cold wind whipping salt against tender skin. He’ll take the sunshine when he can get it, though, in any amount, even when he feels like he’s drowning in it. Maybe things will be different again tomorrow, but Harry will wear the tan from today like a shield against whatever storms might be brewing on the horizon.


	2. watermelon sugar

The cashier at the supermarket earlier must have thought he was out of his mind, but Harry’s got a very specific plan in mind for tonight, and he needs as many different kinds of fruits as he can get to make it happen. There’s something about fruit that’s so romantic to him, and a little bit sexy, in the least fruit-fucker way possible, and the warm LA summer air has him itching in a way he only knows how to deal with by having a picnic and maybe some outdoor sex with the love of his life.

They’re both in LA this week, completely by chance. They’re both supposed to be MIA for a while, just because that’s how their schedules have worked out, and so they’ve chosen to spend their free time in LA where it’s warm and sunny instead of miserable and rainy like it still is in London right now. There’s something so luxurious about spending an entire day swimming and lounging about the pool with Louis in their own private garden, completely unbothered by anything outside of their own property.

He waits until after dinner to set anything up, because the best time for a picnic, in his opinion, is when the stars come out, and he’s got the perfect place in mind for stargazing. Louis goes to have a shower, because he hates the way the pool water dries out his skin, and Harry takes his break to climb up on the roof outside the bedroom window with a blanket and his shopping bag full of fruits.

It doesn’t take long to set up; the roof is mostly level, but it isn’t exactly flat, so it takes a little bit of finagling with the blanket and some last minute pillow additions to make it feel like he isn’t sitting on rocks. He carefully arranges all of his fruit into the platter he brought out, and when he’s finished, the sun is just starting to sink below the horizon, and it’s still wonderfully warm outside.

He climbs back in through the window just as Louis is getting out of the shower, looking as soft and warm as ever. He’s got a touch of new color from the sunshine earlier, and he looks positively radiant, all bronze and shiny and firm as he sheds his towel and pulls on a pair of loose cotton shorts.

Harry sneaks up on him, wrapping his arms around him from behind and kissing at his neck. Louis jumps, but he melts back against him almost as quickly, leaning his head back against Harry’s shoulder so that Harry can have more skin to nip and suck at.

“I have a surprise for you,” Harry says, sliding his hands low on Louis’s belly, fingertips brushing the waistband of his shorts.

“Is it sex?” Louis asks, and he sounds unimpressed, but Harry knows it’s just an act.

“No,” Harry says, but he sucks a mark into Louis’s shoulder just to tease. “Unless you want it to be.”

Louis hums, covering Harry’s hands with his own and lacing their fingers, his hands soft from the shower. “What is it, then?”

Harry pulls away, turning his hand over in Louis’s to tug him along. Louis doesn’t say a word, but once they’re up on the roof, Harry turns around to find him grinning at what Harry’s done.

“Fruit, hm?” Louis says, plucking a kiwi off of the platter and inspecting it. “I’m really beginning to suspect you have a fruit kink.”

Harry laughs, pulling him down onto the blanket. “What if I do?”

Louis smiles, picking up the knife Harry left on the platter and cutting the kiwi in half. He holds it over Harry’s shoulder and squeezes a little until the juice drips onto his skin, and then leans in and licks it off before it can run all the way down his arm.

“Ew,” Harry says, wiping the saliva off of his shoulder and giving Louis a look.

“Okay, that could’ve been sexy, though,” Louis says, putting the kiwi down and leaning up to kiss Harry’s lips, instead. 

“I don’t have a fruit kink,” Harry says, shifting so he can sit on top of Louis, pushing him down onto his back on the blanket.

“Then what kink do you have?” Louis asks, stretching over for a strawberry and brushing it over Harry’s lips until Harry opens his mouth and takes a bite. “Because this definitely seems kink driven.”

Harry swallows the strawberry and leans down to lick into Louis’s mouth, strawberry and kiwi tingling on his tongue. “I have a you kink,” he mutters, holding Louis’s face and kissing him harder.

Louis giggles into his mouth, holding Harry’s hips and letting himself be kissed. Harry gets almost too into it and then pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have an idea,” he says, climbing off of Louis with very little grace. “I’ll be right back.”

Louis sighs, but Harry’s already darting across the roof, ducking back in through the bedroom window and running all the way to the kitchen. There’s fresh lemonade in the fridge from yesterday, he knows, when Louis begged for it until Harry went out to the shops in a hoodie and a beanie in 94 degree heat to get him some, and he knows there’s half a bottle of Tito’s in the liquor cabinet, as well. He mixes the lemonade and the vodka in a pitcher and grabs two glasses, as well, making his way carefully back to the roof, trying not to slosh the pitcher around too much.

Louis’s sitting up now, a half-eaten peach in his hand, and he wordlessly accepts the glass of lemonade Harry offers him. He takes one more bite of his peach and then flings it off of the roof, taking a sip of his drink.

“Louis,” Harry hisses, peering off the edge of the roof to see where the peach has gone.

“What? It’s fruit,” Louis says. “It’s fine.”

“It’ll be covered in bugs by tomorrow,” Harry says, settling down next to him and pouring himself a drink.

“So what? My gift to the bugs,” Louis says, grinning at him over the rim of his glass.

They’re going to make themselves sick, Harry thinks, biting into another strawberry and washing it down with a sip of vodka lemonade, but he doesn’t really mind, because Louis’s looking at him like he hung each of the stars above their heads himself, and Harry’s more than willing to take the credit if it means Louis will keep smiling like that. 

It’s something about a warm summer night, the sweet tang of fruit in his mouth and the feeling of being so in love he doesn’t know what to do with it; spending time with Louis in any capacity is extraordinary, but romantic gestures like this seem all the more special when he knows that no one else in the world knows where they are right now, Harry hasn’t spoken to anyone except Louis in almost 48 hours, and there’s not a single person around to hear the way Harry whines when Louis crawls into his lap and feeds him a couple grapes, kissing down his neck and chest like maybe Harry tastes as good as the fruit, maybe better.

They eat almost everything on the platter, but it’s more of a game than anything. Louis keeps feeding him pineapple chunks with his hands just for the way Harry closes his lips around his fingers and sucks them clean every time, eyes locked on Louis’s. Harry’s got his favorite boy in the world straddling his lap and munching on blueberries and when Louis smiles, his teeth are tinted purple, and Harry loves each one of them so dearly he could cry about it. By the time they get to the cubed watermelon, Harry’s got Louis spread out on his back, and he’s feeding him too quickly, Louis almost can’t even keep up, juice dripping down his chin and neck, glistening in the moonlight.

Harry leans in to lick him clean, like Louis did earlier, but it’s hotter this time, with Louis moaning around a mouthful of fruit while Harry laps up the sticky mess covering his skin. He keeps going even when there’s no trace of watermelon left, until Louis’s writhing between the blanket and Harry’s tongue, one sticky hand knotted in Harry’s hair and guiding him lower and lower, closer to where he wants him.

Harry pauses over Louis’s belly, warm and golden and a little bit swollen from all the fruit he’s eaten. He nuzzles into the little pouch beneath Louis’s bellybutton, biting into his skin and rubbing his face against it like he can’t help himself. Louis tries to push him away, push him further down, but Harry can’t get enough, kissing the soft patch of hair that leads down to Louis’s groin and dipping his tongue into his bellybutton. 

He feels like he’s on a sugar high, overwhelmed with it, with how much Louis drives him crazy. He can’t stop nipping and biting and sucking at his skin, lips dancing over Louis’s hips and back up to his ribs, over his nipples and into his armpits, all the way down both of his arms. Each fingertip is a heavenly fruit, worthy of adoration, Harry can’t believe he’s the only one lucky enough to get to suck Louis’s fingers into his mouth and grind his hips against Louis’s thigh, like the mere taste of him is enough to have him aching. Louis’s going crazy with it, too, blue eyes blown almost black, whining and moaning with every kiss Harry leaves upon his skin.

There’s nothing Harry loves more than this, the warm summer feeling against his back and the bundle of sunlight beneath him, still fisting at his hair and trying to control him but he can’t, even Harry can’t control himself, it’s like nature itself has taken over and he’s helpless to it, working Louis over like it’s the only thing he’s ever known. 

They spend most of the night out on the roof, alone with the stars, the leftover fruit going a bit mushy in the warm summer air. They don’t go back inside until the sun is almost up, and the air has become damp with the beginnings of another sweet summer morning, and Louis drags Harry into the shower to wash away all the sticky, sugary traces of the night.


	3. adore you

There’s something about Jamaica that feels like another world, like when they’re here, real life is too far away to touch them, and they’re safe from it for at least a little while. They’re here to write, ostensibly, but it’s impossible to not feel as though he’s on vacation when he wakes up every day in a king size bed with the balcony doors open to the beach, the sound of the waves washing into the room and bathing him in peace.

Louis is still asleep beside him, all spread out on his tummy with his arms stretched up above his head. He’s miles of golden skin against crisp white sheets, face all smushed against his pillow, facing Harry so the sun isn’t shining in his eyes. Harry turns over slowly, tracing one finger down Louis’s spine right down to where the sheets are lying across his bare ass, and Louis shivers but doesn’t wake up. Harry traces his finger all the way back up to Louis’s hairline and then back down, and finally Louis blinks his eyes open, staring at nothing for a split second before he focuses on Harry.

Harry smiles at him, and Louis smiles back sleepily, letting his eyes fall closed again and wriggling a little to let Harry know that he wants him to keep touching him. Harry lays his hand flat against Louis’s warm skin and rubs slow circles with his palm, until the smile fades from Louis’s face and he’s sleeping soundly again.

He gets up after a little while, pulling on a pair of boxers and sneaking out of the bedroom. They’ve been here for almost a week, and they’re running out of eggs; one of them is going to have to go to the shop soon, but Harry’s almost certain it won’t be Louis.

Louis comes shuffling into the kitchen about an hour later, helping himself to the eggs Harry left for him on the stove and plopping down across from him at the kitchen table, where Harry’s been writing down lyrics in his notebook. Neither of them says anything for a little while. Harry’s too distracted with his writing, and Louis’s probably still half asleep, and they can hear the ocean from in here, too, and nothing they could say could be as comforting as the sound of it.

After Louis’s finished eating and has cleaned up both his own and Harry’s dishes, he comes around the other side of the table, sitting down beside Harry and leaning his head on his shoulder. Harry stops writing for a moment to let Louis see what he’s working on, and then Louis turns his face to kiss at Harry’s neck.

“Beach?” he says, wrapping his arms around Harry’s middle.

Harry nods, turning to kiss Louis’s lips. Louis smiles and pulls him out of his seat, dragging him back to the bedroom to get their trunks on.

Louis grabs a blanket and his laptop, and Harry grabs their beach bag and picks up his guitar out of the case at the last minute, and then they’re off, stepping out the front door of the house they’ve rented and right into the sand.

It’s a completely private beach, their own little cove away from the world. Louis spreads the blanket down on the sand and then plops down on his stomach, opening his laptop and typing away immediately. Harry settles down next to him and watches him for a moment, and then pulls his guitar into his lap, plucking out a few riffs to the tempo the waves are making. It’s so sunny, so warm and gorgeous out, Harry feels like he’s floating, keeping his fingers soft on his guitar so that he won’t disturb Louis’s writing.

Louis stops typing after a little while, folding his arm on the blanket and resting his head in the crook of his own elbow. Harry doesn’t pay him any mind, working out a riff he might like to use for a song, reaching for his notebook to jot it down and then practicing it a few more times.

When he finally looks up, Louis is sleeping soundly, one hand resting limply on his keyboard. Harry smiles, reaching for his phone to take a picture before focusing back on his guitar.

He can’t focus for long, though, not with the way Louis keeps humming and smiling in his sleep. Eventually he puts the guitar down and, feeling nosey, leans over to squint at what Louis had been writing before he fell asleep.

It’s all about Harry, clearly, and it’s only a few lines, but it makes his heart melt. Louis’s probably dreaming about him right now, too, or at least Harry hopes he is. Louis loves him so much, and it’s not like he didn’t already know that, but the reminder has him reaching for his guitar again in a moment and flicking to a clean page in his notebook.

Within an hour, he’s got almost an entire song written about how much he adores Louis. It’s always amazed him how good Louis is with words, how he can say certain things without ever actually saying them at all. He’s never actually professed his love for Harry in a song, of course, but anyone who listens to his music can hear it clear as day without him ever uttering the words. Harry doesn’t need him to say it, though, is the thing. He doesn’t need Louis to do anything except let Harry love him; it’s the greatest gift he could ask for, and he’d do anything to keep it.

He tries to do what Louis does, tries to put as much meaning in so few words, and he thinks he gets his point across quite well. He adores Louis, _adores_ him, everything about him, he would do anything for him, and if the world didn’t already know it, they will now. 

By the time he’s finished the song, the sun is high in the sky and it’s blazing hot, Harry swears he can feel himself cooking. He puts his guitar down again and glances at Louis, finding that his skin looks a bit red, too, like he’s getting a sunburn.

Rather than waking him to tell him to turn over, Harry decides to take matters into his own hands, fishing in their bag for the sunblock and squeezing a generous amount into his palm, warming it up a bit before he starts to carefully spread it over Louis’s skin. He does his very best to be gentle, but his touch must tickle, because Louis flinches and then picks his head up, blinking up at Harry confusedly.

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, wincing at him. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis just smiles at him, putting his head back down and stretching his arms up so that Harry can work the lotion into his biceps and forearms too. “Thanks, Hazza,” he mumbles, looking up at him again once Harry’s finished.

“I would walk through fire for you,” Harry says, quoting his own song, not that Louis would know. Louis just grins again and lifts his arm up, waiting until Harry’s tucked himself under it to close his eyes again.

Harry lies there for a while, probably getting burned now himself, but he doesn’t dare move. He loves this boy so much, so fucking much; it washes over him in waves sometimes, like right now, when Louis’s eyelashes flutter as he drifts back to sleep and Harry can’t stop thinking about kissing him.

They’ve been through so much together, and never once have they grown apart, or lost faith in each other for even a moment. They grew up together, grew into each other, two lonely souls intertwined for as long as they’re both still breathing. When Harry was younger, he feared he would never find someone who would love him for him, for _all_ of him, the way Louis does. He always thought he was too different, too odd, too bizarre to be loved. Meeting Louis was the best thing that ever happened to him; he’s been incredibly fortunate and so, so lucky in a lot of ways over the past ten years, but if everything else went away, this love is the only thing he would cling to.

When they leave Jamaica, Louis’s going home to London for a bit, and Harry’s going to LA for some odds and ends with promo. He has a show coming up, which Louis might try to sneak into, but Harry’s not letting himself get his hopes up. If all else fails, Harry will be home in London in less than two weeks, and he’ll have Louis all to himself again for however long they’re allowed to be MIA until one of them has to jet off someplace else. 

For now, though, Harry’s here, sweating under the summer sun and burning in every place Louis is touching him, trying to get closer and closer even when it feels like he can’t take it anymore. If everything else fell away right now, Harry wouldn’t care a bit, probably wouldn’t even notice, if he’s honest. He adores this boy, and it’s the only thing he’ll ever do.


	4. lights up

“The world is a scary place,” Harry says, his voice echoing through the stadium, which has suddenly gone eerily quiet, hanging on his every word. “There’s not enough kindness out there.”

A few excited voices rise from the crowd, and Harry grins, nodding to the room at large. “Treat people with kindness,” he agrees, looking down at the sticker on his guitar, “all the time, but especially right now. In here, you’re safe. As long as I’m here, you’re safe. In this room, you can be whoever you want to be, and that’s alright with me.”

The crowd cheers, swelling and growing with every second he lets his words hang in the air. Someone throws a flag at his feet in a crumpled ball, and Harry picks it up carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking it into his microphone stand. The crowd gets impossibly louder, and Harry smiles to himself, plucking out the first few notes of the next song on his guitar. 

He fucking loves performing. This is the best part of his job, of his life, of _anyone’s_ life, and he cannot believe he’s lucky enough to be able to do this. The audience sings with him, dances with him, laughs and cries and jokes with him. He wishes he could thank every single one of them individually, but he can’t; the thought that it would take too long makes his stomach twist with something like pride.

The last few songs fall effortlessly from his lips, even when he’s dancing around the stage like no one is watching him. It all comes so easy when he’s up here, in front of all these people, who love and cherish him as much as he loves and cherishes them. He’s on top of the world, hell, maybe he _is_ the world. He certainly feels it, putting his guitar down to prance once more around the stage, waving goodbye to every corner of the dark stadium.

“Be kind to each other!” he urges once more, pushing his hair out of his face and beaming at the roaring crowd. “Good night!”

With that, he backs away from his microphone, and his band plays him out as he gallops off the stage. Fuck, he loves his band, he loves his team, he loves everyone in the world, he loves loves _loves_ -

It’s dark backstage, and Harry’s eyes are still adjusted to the bright spotlights, so he slows down quite a bit once he’s skipped down the stairs from the stage. People swarm him immediately, taking his guitar and his in-ear and stripping him bare, leaving him to blink once, twice, three times before his eyes adjust to the darkness. The lights are going up in the stadium, the show is over, and time begins to trickle away again.

It’s so noisy back here, what with all of the people doing all of their jobs, tossing him a _great show, Harry_ every now and again but never really stopping to adore him, to cherish him like all the people in the audience were just moments ago. Harry always struggles not to lose himself in the shuffle of the post-show hour, putting his head down and worming his way deeper backstage, where it’s a little brighter and a little less crowded.

There’s an area behind the stage entrance where they’ve cluttered all of the equipment and staging that’s already been broken down, ready to load into the van, and behind that, there’s a door with a piece of copy paper taped on displaying Harry’s name in a font that’s taking itself too seriously. Harry makes himself small enough to cut through the chaos and pushes through the door, letting it fall shut behind him to create a barrier between himself and the noise.

The body on his sofa flinches at the noise, and then looks up from the soft glow of a phone screen. Harry smiles, shoulders relaxing properly for the first time since before he went onstage, and Louis opens his arms.

It’s so bright in here, it almost makes Harry’s head hurt, so he shuffles over to let Louis shield him for a little while. Despite having just come from the stage, having just been watched and scrutinized and worshipped by thousands of pairs of eyes for the past two hours, Harry never feels more thoroughly seen than when Louis’s the one looking at him, reminding him exactly who he is because he _knows_ , he knows things that nobody else ever could.

“Love,” Louis says, latching on immediately when Harry lies down on top of him. “That was amazing.”

“You watched?” Harry asks, voice muffled into the shoulder of Louis’s hoodie.

“Of course I did,” Louis says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s damp hair. “I can tell you really went for it out there tonight, hm? You’re drenched.”

Harry laughs, pressing his sweaty forehead into Louis’s neck until Louis groans in disgust. “I miss performing with you,” Harry says, after a quiet minute or two.

“Me too,” Louis admits. “But isn’t this better, in a way?”

Harry’s having the most fun he’s ever had in his life. He’s making the music he wants to make, putting on the shows he wants to put on, and for the first time ever, he feels like he’s actually in control of himself and his career. 

“Different,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to Louis’s collarbone. His skin is salty, probably with Harry’s own sweat. “But not better.”

“Well, you know, I’m ready to get the band back together whenever you are,” Louis says, but he’s teasing, Harry can tell.

“Someday,” Harry says, leaving another kiss on Louis’s skin. If only all those people out there could see him now, curled up on his boyfriend’s chest, still in his show clothes, pressing kisses to whichever parts of Louis he can reach. 

“Someday,” Louis says, too, combing Harry’s hair out of his face and kissing his forehead.

Someday has always been something of a promise in their house; someday things will be better, someday they’ll get to where they want to be, someday the world won’t be so cruel. Someday is elusive, though, the tricky bastard, but Harry thinks he’s pretty okay with how things are today. For now, anyway.

“Are you coming home with me tonight?” Harry asks, picking his head up to look at Louis’s face. “Please?” 

“I’ve got an early flight,” Louis says, but only because he can’t say no when Harry’s pouting at him like this. Early flights are always made so much harder (read: missed) when they spend the night together beforehand, but they can never resist the temptation of spending a few hours curled around each other.

“Please?” Harry asks again, kissing at Louis’s jaw.

“Alright,” Louis sighs, like Harry’s bested him. “But if you octopus me out of one more flight, Styles, I swear to God-”

“I won’t, I promise,” Harry giggles, nuzzling back into Louis’s neck. “I love you,” he mumbles.

“I love you more,” Louis says, like that’s even possible. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Harry says. “I know I added an extra stop to your traveling, but it means a lot to me.”

“Please, the flight to London is just as brutal from LA as it is from New York,” Louis says, but Harry knows firsthand that that’s not really true. “I wish I could come to every single one of your shows, ever.”

“That sounds like a bit much,” Harry teases. “You’d get sick of me.”

“Never,” Louis promises, squeezing him tight. “Right, I should go sneak out the loading dock before anyone finds out I’m here. I’ll see you at home, yeah?” he says, wriggling out from under Harry’s body.

Harry only lets him go because he knows that the second he gets back to their house, Louis will be waiting with open arms again, in their bed this time. Louis kisses him goodbye, and then he’s gone, pulling his hood up and sneaking out of the dressing room like any member of Harry’s crew might be shocked to see him.

After tonight, Harry won’t see him again for two entire weeks, until Harry flies home to London, too. He’s staying in LA for a bit to work, do some writing with some people he’s always wanted to work with, general life-long goal achieving, the usual. Louis’s got work, too, but it’s back home, where he’s always been happiest. Harry wonders if the constant coming and going and starting and stopping and waiting and waiting will ever be over, if stability is ever something that they’re going to reach. Someday, he supposes, with all the other things they’ve promised each other.

For now, though, they both know who they are, and this just happens to be it. Harry’s pretty damn happy with it.


	5. cherry

The first person Harry decides to show the new song to when he gets back to London, of course, is Louis. He’s the most nervous for Louis to hear it, for obvious reasons, so as soon as the song is finished, he goes straight home so he can assess the damage. Louis, bless him, has no idea what the song is about, and Harry doesn’t even attempt to tell him before he sits him down at the kitchen table and presses play on his phone.

Louis smiles at the melody, like Harry expected he would; Louis helped him write that melody months ago, and he knows Louis loves it. His smile turns a little confused as he listens to the lyrics, but Harry won’t meet his eye long enough to field his concerns. They’re both silent until the very end, when the pace of the song changes, and Louis cocks his head curiously.

As soon as Camille’s voice starts speaking through Harry’s phone, Louis’s face falls, and Harry’s heart goes with it. He still doesn’t say anything until the song crackles to a finish, and by then, Harry’s almost sick with all of the excuses ready to tumble out.

“What-” Louis says, but his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and stares at something over Harry’s shoulder. “What the _fuck_ was that.”

“They had her record it before the song was even written. And it worked with the melody we made, so-”

Louis makes a quiet noise of disgust under his breath, glaring down at the table. Harry swallows hard, fidgeting in his seat.

“What about the rest of the song, though?” he asks. “Did you like the rest of it?”

“I hate it,” Louis says harshly.

Harry flinches, twisting his fingers together in his lap and sighing quietly. “Lou-”

“I helped you fucking write that melody, Harry,” Louis says, sitting up straight. “And you turn around and use it for a fucking song about-”

“I used your melody for that song on purpose! As a way to undermine the whole stunt!” Harry argues. “The general public thinks it’s about her, but little do they know, it’s actually about _you_.”

“Bullshit,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “There’s not one line in that song that’s about me.”

“Yeah huh!” Harry says.

“Which one?” Louis scoffs. “The one about my parent’s fucking gallery?”

“There’s a piece of you in how I dress,” Harry sings quietly.

“Fuck off,” Louis says.

“I think people will pick up on it!” Harry says. “I’ll wear more Vans, and stuff, right before the album release-”

“That doesn’t change the fact that-”

“Louis,” Harry cuts him off; the tone of his voice must be strong enough to let Louis know that he’s deathly serious. “I had to. Same as you have to do shit you don’t want to do, I had to do this.”

“I thought I was doing that shit so that you didn’t have to,” Louis mutters, slumping back in his chair. “So that I wouldn’t have to feel like this.”

“Bit selfish, love,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping back to mirror him.

Louis scoffs, sitting up straight again. “Do you wanna talk about selfish, because-”

“No, I really don’t,” Harry says, reaching across the table to force Louis to hold his hand. “I wanna cuddle you and forget about this.”

Louis just keeps pouting at him, so Harry gets up, rounding the table to sit down next to him, instead, pulling him into his arms. Louis lets him, leaning heavy against Harry’s chest, but he doesn’t wrap his arms around Harry in return.

“I’ll rewrite the lyrics to be about you,” Harry says. 

“Okay,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry laughs quietly, smoothing a hand up and down Louis’s back. “Really? Is that all it’s going to take?”

“No,” Louis says. “I’m just mad about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathes, hugging him tighter.

“It’s such a pretty fucking song, too,” Louis says, sighing. “I hate that it’s a stunt.”

“Y’know, not every song on the album can be about you,” Harry says, poking his finger into Louis’s side. “You’ve already got at least three, and the album isn’t even finished yet.”

Louis releases a laugh, and finally wraps his arms around Harry to rest low on his hips. “I want at least five,” he says, biting at the sleeve of Harry’s t-shirt.

“Deal,” Harry says, worming his face into Louis’s neck to kiss at his skin.

Louis smiles when he pulls away, turning around to rest back against Harry while he picks up Harry’s phone off the table. He plays the song again, this time without letting Harry see his face, and Harry cuddles him the whole way through, kissing behind his ear as if to let him know that, no matter what, no amount of stunts or fake songs could ever change the way he feels about him.

“I guess the song isn’t that bad,” Louis says, but he pauses it before Camille’s voice note can play again. 

“I kinda like it,” Harry says, shrugging the shoulder that Louis’s head is resting against just to jostle him a little. “It’d be nice if her voice didn’t have to be in it, but I still like it.”

“You’re such a good writer,” Louis mutters, like he’s putting himself back into a mood. “People are gonna eat this up.”

“Three songs, Louis,” Harry hums, kissing his ear. “Three whole songs.”

“Five,” Louis says, craning his neck to look at him upside down. “Or we’re breaking up.”

“Five,” Harry grins, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “Are you still mad?”

“Yes,” Louis says. “But I guess I see your point. I wish neither of us had to do this shit,” he sighs, sitting up and turning around to look at Harry.

“Someday,” Harry says, pecking a kiss to Louis’s cheek. “Someday, when this is all said and done, I’m gonna write a song called _Louis_. It’s going to be 9 minutes long, and feature a full orchestra.”

Louis laughs, pulling him up out of his chair and twirling him around the kitchen. “I’ll write a song called _Harry_ , it’ll be _10 minutes_ long and will have a 5 minute guitar solo.”

“Maybe we should just make a collaborative album,” Harry says, pulling Louis back against his chest and letting him twirl away agin. “Better yet, let’s form a band.”

“Love that idea!” Louis says. “We can call it One Direction, or something.”

“Sounds perfect,” Harry says, letting Louis dip him backwards to the beat of a tune only the two of them can hear. 

Before long, the song has slipped entirely from both of their minds, determinedly forgotten until the album actually comes out, but that’s a long, long way away. For now, Harry’s got Louis laughing and smiling again and that’s all he cares about, anyway.


	6. falling

It’s one of those dreams that lodges itself in his throat, right in his windpipe, choking off his air supply and leaving him gasping into his pillow. He wakes up with such a violent jerk he pulls a muscle in his neck, and in the ten seconds it takes him to relearn how to breathe, all he can think to do is reach to his left, searching for comfort and coming up with empty sheets, instead. He balls a fist in the bedsheets and coughs so hard he almost gags before his lungs will let any oxygen back in, and since there’s no one beside him to help him out, he turns to his right to scramble through his bedside drawer, pulling his inhaler up to his lips and finally, finally taking a deep breath.

The feeling of air in his lungs seems to force tears into his eyes, and before he knows it he’s sobbing, dropping his inhaler and reaching for the light. He’s on autopilot, ripping his phone off of the charger and unlocking it, going straight for Louis’s contact.

Louis doesn’t answer. Harry tries again, and Louis still doesn’t answer, so he tries again, still to no avail. He gives up after the third try, sinking back down into the bed and sobbing into his pillow. It’s the middle of the day in LA, Louis is probably in a meeting or in the studio or something, but the rational part of Harry’s brain appears to still be sleeping. He cries until he can’t breathe again and forces himself to take another puff of his inhaler, and then finally his breathing starts to regulate.

It’s been so long since he’s had a nightmare like that, but it’s always the same; Louis leaves him, goes on to have an incredible life without Harry weighing him down, and Harry’s life falls to ruin. 

Maybe it’s something more serious than Harry’s ever let himself consider. Maybe it’s incredibly unhealthy that _this_ is his recurring nightmare. Maybe he’s just far too dependent on Louis, and his subconscious is trying to tell him something. Maybe he just needs to reconsider the way he feels, the way he can’t sleep through the night if Louis’s not beside him, the way sometimes, even when Louis is curled up against his back, he wakes up crying like a child, desperate to be held.

Or maybe his dreams are premonitions. Maybe the message his subconscious is trying to send is that his relationship is doomed to fail, and it’s his fault. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him to let Louis go, to set him free so he can flourish the way he’s meant to. Maybe Louis’s more bitter fans are right, and it’s Harry’s fault that things have worked out the way they have, that misfortune strikes like lightning to a rod in Louis’s life and Harry’s just-

He takes a third puff on his inhaler when his lungs start burning, and then reaches for his phone again. Louis still doesn’t answer, and when the phone rings out, Harry squeezes his eyes shut and listens for Louis’s voice.

“You’ve reached Louis Tomlinson, I either can’t make it to the phone right now or I don’t want to talk to you, so text me if it’s important! Cheers!”

“Lou,” Harry croaks, and then his brain catches up with him a little, and he realizes how silly he’s about to sound saying _I had a nightmare_. There’s nothing Louis can do, obviously, not from all the way out in LA, short of talking Harry back to sleep through the phone. On second thought, that would be good, and Harry’s eyes well up again with how bad he wants that. “Please call me, I — please call me when you can,” he says, hanging up quickly and slamming his phone down on the mattress. 

He lies there for ages, checking his phone every few seconds and whining when Louis still hasn’t returned his call. He feels like he could melt into the mattress and disappear, he wants to, he — he can’t breathe again, for fuck’s sake, he’s going to use up his entire inhaler on one panic attack.

A panic attack. That’s all it is. That’s what Louis would be telling him right now, isn’t it? Except Louis isn’t here. Louis can’t tell him that because he _isn’t here_ , he isn’t answering the phone and he _isn’t fucking here_ and Harry’s alone and he deserves it, he deserves be alone and he knows it but he can’t, he can’t fucking stand it, he can’t be alone, he can’t even fucking _sleep_ by himself and Louis is never going to call him back because he’s figured it out, too, he knows Harry’s a fucking fraud and he’s going to be so much better off the second he finally kicks Harry to the curb like Harry deserves and fuck, _fuck_ , Harry’s going to be alone for the rest of his life because there’s no one else, there’s no one in the world that could ever love him like Louis, and even _Louis_ doesn’t love him anymore, he won’t answer the phone and he’s never going to call back and-

Harry sits up, sobbing again, staring at the buzzing phone in his hand like it’s a bomb about to go off. He bites down another cry — of anguish or relief, he can’t tell — and answers the call, pressing the phone to his ear and sobbing into it.

“Harry?” Louis’s voice says, sounding so, so worried. “Love? Harry, what’s wrong?”

Harry forces himself to breathe in and then whimpers, trembling from head to toe. “Louis?”

“I’m here,” Louis says, like he really is. He sounds calm, suddenly, unlike when he first answered. Harry chokes down the line, and Louis shushes him gently. “You’re okay, love, just breathe. Hey, Harry, breathe.”

Harry tries, but it’s easier said than done. God, look at him, he can’t even fucking _breathe_ , what a fucking _loser_ -

“Stop it,” Louis says. “You’re fine, love. You’re just fine.”

Fine? He’s fine? How the hell can he be fine if-

“Breathe in,” Louis says. Harry breathes in. “And out.” Harry breathes out. “That’s it, love, see? Perfectly alright.”

“Lou,” Harry says, voice still shaking.

“I love you,” Louis says, like an offering. Harry accepts it gratefully. “I love you, Harry, y’know?”

“I love you,” Harry mumbles, gripping the phone so tightly it’s a wonder it hasn’t shattered in his hand. 

“I know,” Louis says sweetly. “Do you know I love you?”

“Lou-”

“I love you,” Louis says. “I miss you, and I’m so sorry I’m not there beside you right now, love, do you know? Do you know how much I love you?”

“I know,” Harry says, the tension in his chest easing bit by bit. “Louis-”

“What, darling?” Louis says. 

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, hunching forward to bury his face in his own lap. 

“For what?” Louis asks hesitantly; the slight shift in his tone has Harry spiraling again before he can help it, and Louis curses under his breath, like he already knows he said the wrong thing. “No, Harry, you have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, but it’s too late.

“I need you,” Harry cries.

Louis whimpers, breathing out harshly. “I’m here.”

“No, you’re not!” Harry bites out. “I need you and you’re — you’re so far-”

“I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry,” Louis gushes.

“My fault,” Harry says, hiccuping loudly. “ _My fault_.”

“No,” Louis says firmly. “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault, Harry, it’s just-”

“I need you too much!” Harry shouts suddenly. 

Louis is silent on the other end. 

“I need you — too much.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes, like he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I love you,” Harry says, turning over until he’s curled up on his side, all tangled up in his sheets. 

“Harry,” Louis says again, “I-”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.

“It’s okay,” Louis says. 

Harry sniffles, curling up tighter and pressing the phone against his ear so hard it hurts. “Where are you?” he asks quietly.

“Locked in the toilets at Arista,” Louis says. “I was in a meeting, that’s why I didn’t answer.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He knew that. He should’ve, anyway.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, embarrassed.

“The same one?” Louis presses.

Harry hesitates, and then sighs. “Yeah.”

“Baby,” Louis says.

“It’s-” Harry scoffs, pressing his face into the mattress. “It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Louis says, but they both know it is.

“It’s pathetic,” Harry says. “It’s-”

“A natural response to trauma,” Louis says. “It’s a panic attack. It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Harry says.

“Well,” Louis sighs. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

Harry cracks a smile, finally, and shakes his head. “Thank you. I think I’m done being a freak now.”

“I love every bit of you, you know?” Louis says. “Every bit of you, Harry, even the parts of you that wake up screaming in the middle of the night and nearly put me into cardiac arrest during a meeting when I realize I have four missed calls and a voicemail from you. I love the parts of you that love me so much you have nightmares about losing me. I even love the parts of you that convince you I don’t love you back, though I must admit, those are not my favorite parts. If there’s one thing I have learned over the many years I have loved and adored you, Harry Styles, it is that you will never, ever, for as long as you live, be done being a freak.”

Harry lets out a startled laugh, even though his hands are still shaking, chest still aching a little bit. “I love you, Lou.”

“I love you,” Louis says. “Get some sleep, weirdo. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“A few days,” Harry says, closing his eyes and clinging to those words.

“A few days,” Louis repeats. 

Louis never hangs up first on these phone calls, so Harry whispers a final _I love you_ and then ends the call before he can start to cry again, tossing his phone onto the floor beside the bed and grabbing Louis’s pillow, hugging it close to his chest. He doesn’t end up going back to sleep, far too afraid that he’ll have another nightmare and have to disturb Louis once again, and that’s definitely something he’s got to work on, but he knows that, at the very least, he is loved.


	7. to be so lonely

It seems like every time their schedules happen to overlap, they’re in New York. Louis’s here for promo, and Harry’s only here for some meetings, which is the best part: nobody knows that they’re in the same place right now, so it’s way easier for them to be together without getting caught. Harry didn’t even bother booking a hotel room for this trip; he’s been in Louis’s room every free minute he has.

They only have four days together, three nights, but it’s better than nothing. It feels like it’s been so long since they’ve properly spent time together, and Harry’s been feeling pretty lonely as of late, so it’s nice to be able to curl up next to Louis and go to sleep at night even if he’s always aware at the back of his mind that in a few days he’s going to have to say goodbye and go back to London alone. 

It’s funny to think that they had a fight a few years ago about this exact thing, in this exact city. Their schedules overlapped for a single night and Louis blew him off to party with Steve because that was easier than having to say goodbye in the morning, and Harry had been so upset he nearly ended things right then and there. Harry thinks he’s finally starting to understand what Louis meant last time, though; he’s leaving tomorrow night to go back to London, but Louis’s going to be busy all day, which means they’ll have to say goodbye in the morning before Louis heads out to his interview. Harry’s curled up on Louis’s chest right now, but he already misses him so much it hurts.

Louis runs a hand through his hair and traces his fingers all the way down Harry’s naked back, raising goosebumps all over his skin. “Baby,” Louis says, breathing right into Harry’s ear. “Stop thinking about it.”

“Don’t call me baby again,” Harry mutters, pressing his pout into Louis’s bare chest. “I’m depressed.”

“Baby,” Louis says, a hint of a smile in his voice like he thinks this is funny.

“Don’t,” Harry growls, stretching his neck forward to bite Louis’s nipple. Louis yelps, pushing his head away, but doesn’t say anything more. Harry shifts to cuddle him more thoroughly, hooking his arms under Louis’s shoulders and spreading his legs to bracket Louis’s hips until he’s wrapped around Louis as much as he can be, forcing Louis to cuddle him back.

When Louis leaves New York the day after tomorrow, he’s going to LA for a week to do some stunt stuff and have some staged paparazzi photos taken. Harry’s going back to London to do some more writing, and he doesn’t physically have to be seen for a while, but there’s some press stuff on the horizon to push the same old stunts they’ve been sticking with for months, and he’s not looking forward to it. 

This shit is the worst part of the whole thing. It’s bad enough when they’re both stunting and having false images pushed in the media, but it’s even worse when they’re doing it from opposite sides of the globe. It fucking sucks to come home at the end of a long day and not have Louis there with him, to sit around and be so lonely while Louis is so far away feeling just as lonely.

As much as Louis keeps telling Harry to stop thinking about it, Harry can tell that he’s thinking about it, too. The way he’s absently tapping his fingers over Harry’s shoulder blade like he’s drumming his fingernails against a table, Harry knows he’s thinking about what he’s got to do tomorrow, the fake answers he’s going to have to give to an interviewer that doesn’t actually give a fuck about him or his life, and then the terrible week that comes after, drinking coffee and taking walks and holding hands with a girl he can’t even stand to look at anymore, let alone spend entire days with. 

He’d never admit it, but Harry’s starting to feel really fucking sorry that this is the price they both have to pay just for being in love. It’s really starting to get to him, not that it hasn’t been getting to him for years now; the longer it goes on, the more ridiculous it becomes, and it’s starting to seem like it’s never going to end.

“Stop thinking about it,” Harry echoes Louis from a few minutes earlier, but this time it’s for both of them. Louis breathes in deep and lets it out slowly, Harry’s head rising and falling with his chest. Harry closes his eyes and squeezes Louis tight, and finally Louis’s hands come to settle low on Harry’s back, right at the dip of his spine.

“You first,” Louis says, like he knows Harry’s mind is just as cluttered right now. 

They both fall silent for a little while, and Louis’s breathing evens out under Harry’s head, but Harry can’t fall asleep. He stares at the wall across from the bed for a while, memorizing the sound of Louis’s heart beating because this is the last time he’s going to hear it for a little while, and then picks his head up to look up at Louis’s face.

Louis is wide awake, watching him, too. Harry jumps a little, and then sighs, resting his chin on the center of Louis’s chest and staring up at him.

“I can’t sleep, either,” Louis says, producing a hand from under the covers and combing his fingers through Harry’s hair, scratching at his scalp. 

“Remember last time,” Harry says, putting his head down again, “when we were both in New York, and you didn’t want to see me because you didn’t want to say goodbye to me?”

“I remember,” Louis says, voice quiet.

“Remember how upset I was? And I said that no matter how short it was or how hard the goodbye would be, I always wanted to-”

“-To see me because any time we’re able to spend together is precious,” Louis says, fingernails scratching gently just behind Harry’s ear. “Yeah, I remember. You were right, anyway.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, until Louis moves his hand again to scratch at a different spot on Harry’s scalp. “I was gonna say I think I might have been wrong.”

Louis’s hand stops moving altogether, and then he knots his fingers in Harry’s hair and pulls his head up to meet his eyes. “What?”

Harry’s eyes fill with tears, and not only because Louis’s still pulling his hair. “I can’t — I literally can’t stand the thought of saying goodbye to you in the morning.”

Louis’s face softens, and he loosens his grip in Harry’s hair. “We’ve done it a million times, Harry,” he says, like that should make it any easier.

“I know,” Harry says, face crumpling. “And I never want to do it again.”

Louis clicks his tongue quietly, stretching down to drop a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose, because he can’t reach his lips in this position. “There’s always going to be something, though, isn’t there?” he says.

“What?” Harry says, opening his eyes to peek up at him.

“There’s always going to be a reason to have to say goodbye. That’s who we are, Harry, it’s what we do, and it sucks, but it’s all part of it. Unless one of us gives up everything, or both of us — there’s always going to be things we have to do, places we have to go, reasons we can’t be with each other. But there isn’t a single goodbye, Harry, not a single goodbye that won’t be followed by a ‘hello again,’ right? Have I ever said goodbye to you and not said hello again after?” Louis says.

Harry sniffles, shaking his head.

“Exactly,” Louis says. “So stop thinking about how hard goodbye is going to be, and think about how wonderful it’s going to be when I come home in two weeks. You don’t have to miss me, you can just look forward to seeing me again soon. That’s how I get through it. Every time I’m missing you, I just remind myself that we’re always going to come back together at the end. Every single time, Harry, we come back together.”

“Doesn’t make me any less lonely when I’m without you,” Harry mumbles.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Louis admits.

“Doesn’t make it any easier to stop missing you before I’ve even left you,” Harry says, like he’s happy to have regained the miserable upper hand in the debate.

“Well, now you’re just being silly,” Louis says, pushing Harry off of him and turning over, so that they’re both curled up on their sides. Louis keeps pushing until Harry’s turned all the way over, his back to Louis’s chest, so that Louis can curl around his back, tucking his face into Harry’s neck. “Now go to sleep, moron, because if I have to go to this interview tomorrow with bags under my eyes I’m gonna slander you in the press.”

Harry laughs, wiping at his eyes and then cuddling back into Louis’s arms. “I love you,” he whispers, letting his eyes fall closed.

“I love you more,” Louis says, and then the world falls away for one more night.


	8. she

When the package first arrived, Harry had shoved it so deep into the back of the closet that it’s a wonder he didn’t forget about it. He almost wishes he could’ve forgotten about it, but that was never an option; from the second he saw it online, he couldn’t push it out of his head, and he still hasn’t stopped thinking about it. It was a bold purchase, which is saying a lot; Harry’s made a lot of strange and unusual fashion choices in the past few years, but nothing quite like… this.

Louis’s going to be home in a few days, which is lovely, but Harry’s too afraid to try on his newest purchase with Louis in the house, and he can’t seem to work up the courage to try it on even when he’s home alone. He’s pulled it out a few times now, pulled open the corner of the plastic shipping bag and felt the smooth material against his fingertips, but he hasn’t even taken it fully out of the bag. He’s been waiting what feels like forever for the right moment, and he ends up putting it off until the last possible day to get the package out of the closet and finally open it all the way up.

He sits down in the center of the bed with it, carefully pulling open the bag and letting the soft silk fall in a heap on top of the duvet. He smooths it out carefully, heart racing at the implications, letting his fingers dance gently over the cut of the neckline and the hem of the skirt.

It takes an eternity for him to get his leaden legs off the bed and onto the floor, and then another eternity to strip out of his clothes and fold them carefully on the corner of the mattress. He wonders for a moment about his briefs, thinks they might be visible even through the dark material, but ultimately decides to leave them on, just in case he has to return this, like he suspects he will.

Finally, finally, he turns around to pick the dress up from the bed, slipping it over his head and letting it fall naturally into place, about midway down his thighs. It feels nice, despite the fact that he knows if he thinks too hard about what he’s doing, he’ll have a full-fledged panic attack.

He turns to the mirror slowly, trying to take it all in at once. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes fill with tears before he can even form a thought, but he blinks the tears away and forces himself to keep looking.

He’s still Harry, somehow. He’s still got his same shoulders and arms and all his tattoos are accounted for, and he’s still got the wonky cowlick he woke up with this morning and his chin is still dark with stubble. He’s different, though, irrevocably different, because now that he’s seen himself like this, he knows he’ll never be the same.

It’s just a simple dress, navy blue, spaghetti straps with a U-shaped neckline. It’s a pretty straight cut, which is good because it doesn’t emphasize the curves he doesn’t have. He spent so long searching for a dress that wasn’t clearly made for a girl, and this was the best he could do; the model in the picture appeared to be almost completely flat-chested, and the dress fell so perfectly over her body, Harry could almost picture himself in it from the moment he saw it. It fits him exactly like he expected, but somehow, it’s so much better. He’s worn dresses before, sure, but only ever as a joke. Now it’s intentional, it’s on purpose, and it feels so good Harry thinks he might cry again.

He spends a while just standing in front of the mirror, swaying a little and watching the way the dress moves. It cuts off about mid-thigh, his tattoo poking out the bottom, and the way it swishes around so freely makes him smile. It’s so comfortable, he doesn’t know why he can’t be allowed to leave the house like this. He’s never felt freer in his life.

He gets used to the sight of himself wearing a dress much faster than he might have anticipated. He loves it, loves the way it looks, the way it feels, the way it moves when he finally turns away from the mirror and walks back toward the bed. It’s a little bit tight around his chest and the straps are just a little too short, because it clearly was not made for someone like him, but he can’t even find it within himself to care. It makes him want to dance, and so he does, grabbing his phone to put on some music while he twirls around the room.

He loses track of time like that, staring down at his body while he moves. Something about the way it looks has him entirely captivated; his legs are unshaven and muscular and the hem of the dress is frilly and feminine, and the juxtaposition is absolutely delightful. He want a hundred dresses, a million, wants to throw out everything in his closet and only wear dresses for the rest of his life. 

The idea is so appealing that he finally pries his eyes open and dances over to get his laptop from the bedside table to do some more shopping, but the second he opens his eyes he catches sight of a figure standing in the doorway, and his heart drops to his toes.

He lunges for his phone, hands already trembling as he turns the music off. He’s mortified, stomach sinking so quickly he thinks he might be sick, but Louis is just watching him curiously, no trace of disgust or confusion on his face.

Louis takes a few steps closer and Harry feels frozen to the floor, his blood like ice in his veins. Neither of them say a word for so, so long, Harry’s definitely going to be sick, he’s going to die of embarrassment, he’s going to-

“Well,” Louis says, like he doesn’t know what to do, either.

“I can explain,” Harry says, words tumbling out before he can stop them. 

Louis quirks an eyebrow at him, and Harry wants to cry.

“I,” Harry says, eyes filling with tears. “I-”

Louis steps closer again, but Harry can’t see his expression through his tears, despite his attempts to blink them away. He puts his head down, ashamed, until finally Louis reaches out and takes both of his hands, lifting his arms to get a better look at him. 

Harry blinks again and looks up, watching Louis inspect him. He still doesn’t look disgusted or put off; in fact, he’s smiling a little bit, eyes sweeping over the dress.

“I bought it,” Harry says, his voice so quiet Louis probably wouldn’t be able to hear him if he wasn’t right in front of him. “I liked it, so I bought it. Um.”

Louis smiles a little more, dropping one of Harry’s hands and lifting the other higher, prompting Harry to do a twirl. Harry cooperates, trying to meet Louis’s eyes again the second he’s turned around, but Louis doesn’t look at his face, taking a step back to keep admiring him. Harry feels like he’s going to burst into flames, clearing his throat to get Louis’s attention, but Louis is still just staring at the dress.

“What — um,” Harry stutters, clearing his throat again. “What are you thinking?”

“I think,” Louis says, cocking his head a little, “that your nails don’t match your dress.”

Harry startles a little, looking down at his nails. Louis is right; his nails are painted purple, and the shade looks almost garish next to the deep blue of the dress. He curls his hands into fists to hide his nails and then looks up at Louis again, inexplicably ready to cry again.

Louis doesn’t say another word, just turns away and disappears into the ensuite. Harry stays rooted to his place and takes three very slow deep breaths before Louis returns with a bottle of polish remover and a new shade of polish in his hands. He sits Harry down so, so gently and uncaps the polish remover, silently getting to work on taking off the purple polish. Harry doesn’t pay a bit of attention to what he’s doing; he keeps his eyes glued to Louis’s face, his pulse still hammering away, like at any moment Louis’s going to burst out laughing and tell him to take his silly dress off.

That doesn’t happen, though. Louis just finishes taking the polish off and then uncaps the new bottle, chewing on his lip in concentration while he holds Harry’s fingers still with one hand and paints very carefully with the other. Harry finally looks down after a while, finding that Louis’s chosen a very light shade of baby pink. It looks lovely against the navy blue material, and Harry feels his eyes well up yet again as Louis finishes one hand and moves on to the next.

When Louis is finished, he blows lightly over Harry’s nails, discarding the bottle of polish and the remover on the floor beside the bed and inspecting his work more closely. Harry holds his breath, but when Louis looks up, he can clearly tell that Harry’s eyes are full of tears.

“Lovely,” Louis says, turning Harry’s hands over in his own and pressing a kiss to the center of each palm. He leans up when he’s finished, pressing a kiss to Harry’s mouth, as well, and Harry crumbles a little bit.

Louis’s face falls, but he only lets go of Harry’s hands when the first tear falls. “Love,” Louis says, reaching up to brush the tear away before it can fall on Harry’s dress.

“Sorry,” Harry says, turning his face into his own shoulder. “This is so weird-”

“What’s weird?” Louis says, frowning when Harry looks up at him. 

“This,” Harry says, nodding toward his outfit. “You came home and found me dancing alone in our bedroom with a dress on, and now I’m crying about it. Why are you home, anyway? You weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow,” he says.

“I moved my flight to surprise you,” Louis says, but now his eyes look sad. “Were you — I mean, if I hadn’t come home just now, would you ever have let me see this?”

Harry hesitates, and then shakes his head. 

Louis’s shoulders drop, like he’s gutted. Harry wants to cry all over again. 

“I just, I didn’t know what you’d think,” Harry says quickly. “I didn’t know what _I’d_ think. I’ve had it for weeks, but I was too scared to try it on,” he admits.

Louis looks so _sad_ , Harry wants to _die_. “Are you — is this okay? That I’m here?” Louis asks, looking up at him quickly. “I never dreamt that I’d walk in on you doing something so private and, I don’t know-”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says, leaning in to drop a quick kiss to Louis’s lips. “It’s just — yeah, I wasn’t really expecting anyone to see me. I thought I was safe,” he says.

Wrong words. Absolutely the wrong words to have said in this moment, because if Louis looked upset before, now he looks absolutely crushed.

“Safe?” he says, voice hardly a squeak. “You thought you wouldn’t be safe if I saw you like this?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says, kicking himself internally. “God, no, Louis, that’s not what I meant.”

“You could do anything,” Louis says, swallowing hard. “You could do anything in the world and I’d be on board with it. This is — it’s not nothing, obviously, I can see how important it is to you, but it’s _you_. Short of, like, killing someone, or something, there is nothing in this universe that you could do that would turn me off from you,” he says, reaching down to squeeze Harry’s knee.

Harry smiles, surging forward to hug Louis for all he’s worth. He’s mindful of his wet nails, but Louis doesn’t seem to mind, sinking gratefully into his arms.

“I love you,” Louis says into his neck. “And I think you look beautiful, but I always think that.”

“I love you, too,” Harry says, holding on until Louis pulls away first.

“So is this, like, a thing now?” Louis asks. “Like, should I be looking for nice dresses to buy you next time I’m in Italy?”

Harry giggles, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t know,” he says, looking down at himself again. “I wouldn’t turn them down.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Louis grins, kissing Harry’s lips once more before getting up off the bed. He reaches for Harry’s phone and turns the music back on, taking Harry’s hand to pull him up, too. “C’mon, then, dance with me,” he says, pulling Harry close.

Harry laughs, hooking his arms around Louis shoulders and swaying with him to the beat. Harry is so in love with him, but by the looks of it, Louis might be able to give him a run for his money in this moment. They spend the rest of the afternoon dancing around the bedroom, laughing and kissing and twirling and dipping until Harry’s so dizzy with love and affection he collapses back onto the bed, grinning when Louis climbs right up on top of him to keep the party going. 

If Harry orders three more dresses that night after Louis’s asleep, well, nobody needs to know.  



	9. sunflower, vol. 6

Days like today always make Harry think back to the start, when he and Louis were just getting to know each other, dancing around each other and keeping their guards up because neither of them were ever really sure if they were allowed to be having these feelings, to be looking at each other like this and blushing and giggling and acting like fools.

It always made Louis a little bit moody, especially a few months in. It was hard, being told off for something neither of them could control, and Louis always took it personally, took it to heart. He would get quiet and closed off and wouldn’t look anyone directly in the eye for days at a time, and the only way Harry could bring him out of it was to crawl into his bed at the end of a long day of rehearsals or interviews or live shows and kiss him really softly, whisper into his ear that he was doing a great job. Harry must have spoiled him back then, or something, because now, whenever Louis decides he wants a bit of extra attention, he keeps his head down and his mouth firmly in a line and refuses to give Harry more than one word answers until Harry does something special just to finally get him to smile.

Louis’s been moping about nothing all day, kicking around the house and pouting whenever Harry says anything to him. If it was anyone else, it’d be infuriating; Louis is acting like a child, but just like everything else about him, Harry finds it absolutely endearing. It makes him all soft in all the right places when Louis reverts back to his 18-year-old ways, accepting Harry’s kisses but not returning them, allowing him short bursts of cuddles before shuffling off to hide and wait to receive another bit of attention. 

It’s the time of year when the sun sinks below the tree line just after lunchtime, when the days feel incredibly short and time passes far too quickly. It’s not even close to dinnertime yet when Harry leaves Louis curled up in the center of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone and ignoring every word Harry’s trying to say to him. He heads to the kitchen and pulls a couple of things out of the liquor cabinet, grabbing his phone to turn on some music and then texting Louis a simple _come downstairs_.

Louis comes shuffling in just as Harry’s finishing up two drinks, shaking his ass to the music playing from the speakers. Louis’s lips quirk up a little as he accepts the drink Harry hands him, but he doesn’t let himself smile quite yet.

“What the hell are we listening to?” he asks, standing firm when Harry tries to pull him in to dance.

“Dancehall,” Harry says, grinning. “And we’re drinking Jamaican Rum Punch, because it reminds me of Jamaica, which reminds me of you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his drink and then screwing his face up. “What the hell is in this?” he asks.

“Like, three different kinds of rum, and the juice of every citrus fruit we had,” Harry says, taking a gulp of his own. “I like it!”

“You would,” Louis says, but he takes another sip to hide the smile growing on his face. Harry still sees it.

“Dance with me,” Harry says, putting his drink down on the counter and pulling Louis close again.

“I’m tired,” Louis complains, but he doesn’t actively resist this time when Harry starts swaying him side to side.

“You’ve been a right tit all day,” Harry says, pecking a kiss to the end of his nose. “Now dance with me, or I’ll leave you for Mitch.”

“Mitch is married,” Louis grumbles into his drink.

“So am I,” Harry says, twirling himself under Louis’s heavy arm. “Doesn’t mean I can’t leave you for him.”

“You know we’re not actually married yet, right?” Louis says, finally letting Harry see a hint of a smile. 

“Then why do I have all these rings?” Harry asks, waving his hand at Louis to show him that he’s got a ring on every single finger.

“Those are gifts,” Louis says, batting Harry’s hand away. “Y’know there’s more to marriage than rings?”

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” Harry shrugs, stealing a sip of Louis’s drink because he left his own so far away. “You’re a shitty dancer.”

“I’m not dancing, you are,” Louis snorts, pulling away a bit to sip his drink out of spite.

“Then dance with me!” Harry whines. 

Louis rolls his eyes, throwing back the rest of his drink in three gulps and then glaring at Harry. Harry laughs, grabbing both of his now-empty hands and shaking him to the beat of the music until eventually Louis can’t help but laugh, falling against Harry’s chest and letting Harry keep rattling him to the tempo. Harry finds the sound of Louis’s laughter more intoxicating than any drink could dream of being, and by the time Louis finally pulls away to dance on his own, Harry’s so drunk on the feeling of Louis’s happiness he can hardly see straight.

They dance through Harry’s whole Dancehall playlist and then some, letting Spotify play DJ while they dance like idiots. Louis keeps dancing away from him, squirming away every time Harry pulls him close so that he can dance more freely, but Harry can’t let him stay away for long. Eventually he pulls Louis in all the way, like they’re going to waltz, and Louis laughs, melting into his chest.

Harry tries to keep them moving to the beat, but he can’t stop leaning down to kiss Louis’s mouth and his cheeks and whatever he can reach, so they quickly lose their rhythm. Louis just keeps laughing, and it’s exactly how they used to be; it feels exactly like they’re 16 and 18 again, dancing around the very first kitchen they shared, back before everything got so hard and weird and awkward. Harry never actually finds out what’s been bothering Louis today, but it all seems to vanish, anyway, when Louis presses his face into Harry’s neck and whispers that he loves him, and then bites down hard before slipping away.

Harry spends the rest of the night chasing Louis around the house, like they’re children, like they’re lovesick teenagers, and everything is as it should be.


	10. canyon moon

Gemma’s flat is lovely. It’s so comfortable and homey, probably because she lives here full-time, and isn’t constantly jetting off to one of her other houses scattered across the world like Harry is. He loves each of his houses, really, but there’s something so nice about the thought of having one home, one singular place that is _his_ ; maybe that’s why he finds so much comfort in having Louis around. 

Louis isn’t around right now, though. He’s in LA for the next two weeks, doing promo and interviews and radio shows and whatever else. Harry couldn’t fathom the idea of spending another day alone, and he has no good reason to be in LA right now, so he packed a bag and went to stay with Gemma for the weekend.

Gemma is a perfect hostess, with her sage and cream themed guest room and her vanilla-scented diffusers placed strategically around the flat, so that it always smells like something is baking. Her homemaking is so similar to Harry’s that he almost feels like he’s at home when he’s at Gemma’s, except for the fact that Louis is halfway across the world and Gemma’s boyfriend isn’t quite as cuddly as Harry prefers his friends to be.

Gemma and Michal haven’t been together nearly as long as Harry and Louis have been, but they remind Harry of himself and Louis in odd little ways. The way they make each other laugh, the way they care for each other like it’s second nature, the way Gemma starts preparing a tea at approximately 6:00 every evening so that it’ll be exactly the right temperature by the time Michal gets in the door from work. Domesticity has always been one of Harry’s favorite things in the world, but his and Louis’s schedules haven’t really been allowing for it as of late. If Harry could spend every day for the rest of his life timing the preparation of tea for Louis’s arrival home, he would do it in a heartbeat, but as it is, he hasn’t seen his boy in days and he aches for him every moment they’re apart.

When Harry wakes up on Sunday morning, it’s still only just past midnight in LA, and Louis sent his goodnight text hours ago. This time difference is the worst; Louis won’t be awake for 8 more hours, at least, and by the time he gets up, it’ll already be 4:00 in London, if not later. Harry hates going the whole day without talking to him, but he also hates disturbing Louis’s sleep, so he settles for moping in silence in Gemma’s living room until she brings him a plate of eggs and avocado toast and settles down beside him on the sofa.

“What are you pouting about?” she asks, elbowing him gently. “Did Louis not send you a good morning text to wake up to?”

“No, he did,” Harry says, blushing down at his breakfast. Almost ten years they’ve been together, and Louis has never once failed to send him a message to wake up to when they’re apart. 

“Was it not sappy enough, then?” Gemma teases. “What, did he only profess his undying love twice instead of three times?”

“Shut up,” Harry says, pushing at her with his socked foot. “No, I just miss him. I hate when I’m here and he’s in LA and he’s sleeping the whole time I’m awake,” he mutters.

“That is pretty rough,” Gemma says, not quite so teasing anymore. “Have you sent him a message to wake up to yet?”

“No, because knowing him he’s not fully asleep yet and I know he’s got his phone set so that my messages break through the ‘do not disturb’ setting, and I don’t wanna delay him getting to sleep,” Harry says.

“Sounds like you’re in a pickle, then,” Gemma sighs. “Guess you’ll just have to hang out with little old me, in the meantime.”

Harry grins, leaning into her side for a cuddle. “Guess so,” he says, yelping around a bite of his toast when Gemma tugs at his ear.

Michal always sleeps in on the weekends, so Harry and Gemma make it almost all the way through _Ten Things I Hate About You_ before he finally comes shuffling out of the bedroom for breakfast. Gemma left an egg for him on the stove and bread for toast by the toaster when she made breakfast for herself and Harry earlier, so it’s not long before he comes to join them on the sofa, curling into Gemma’s unoccupied side.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Gemma greets him, petting at his hair lovingly. Harry watches them out of the corner of his eye, trying not to feel sad.

“Morning,” Michal says, nuzzling against her hand like a cat. “Good eggs.”

“Thanks, you too,” Gemma teases, ruffling Michal’s hair and then pulling her hand away. Harry pouts a little, nudging against Gemma’s arm like her other, more neglected cat, until she pets his hair, too, out of sympathy. 

Harry reaches for his phone to check the time, counting backwards in his head until he decides that it’s 3am in LA time, and there’s as good a chance that Louis is asleep by now as there is that he’s still awake. He decides to take the chance, hiding his phone under his thigh so that Gemma won’t read his message, and taps out a text to Louis.

_Good morning, sunshine! Been thinking about you all morning.. :( Text me when you wake up. Love you! H._

He stares at his phone for a few minutes after the message is sent, just in case Louis is awake and decides to reply now, but there’s no such luck. He sighs quietly and tosses his phone to the other end of the sofa, and despite his efforts to hide it from her, Gemma must know what he’s done, because she reaches out and pets at his hair again until Harry puts his head down on her shoulder, distractedly watching the rest of the film still playing on the TV.

-

It’s Gemma’s idea to make a roast for dinner, which turns into much more of a project than any of them signed up for. Gemma won’t let either Harry or Michal leave the kitchen, because making a roast is a _family activity_ and, apparently, they are a family.

Gemma is barking orders, reading from a cookbook while Harry and Michal scurry around gathering the ingredients. It’s fun, it’s like a game, and Harry is comfortable enough with Michal that he lets his competitive side come out.

“Rosemary!” Gemma says, holding her hand out expectantly. Michal has a home field advantage, and he finds the spice cupboard first, delivering the rosemary to Gemma promptly.

“Sea salt!” Gemma says next, and Harry makes it to the cupboard first this time, grabbing the jar of sea salt from the rack and all but slamming it down on the counter next to the stove.

“Peppercorns!” Gemma says, and Harry lunges back to the cupboard, but he can’t find any peppercorns. Michal boots him out of the way to have a look for himself, and then looks at Harry with wide eyes. “Peppercorns!” Gemma demands, and Michal turns to her sheepishly.

“We’re out, love,” he says.

“What?” Gemma says, pushing both of them aside to look in the cupboard. “Shit.”

“Tesco’s just down the street,” Michal says cheekily, nudging Gemma with his elbow. 

“Lucky for you,” Gemma says, giving him an unimpressed look.

“It’s your roast!” Michal scoffs. 

“That _you’ll_ be eating!” Gemma says. “You go to Tesco.”

“I’m in my slippers!” Michal says, pointing at his feet. He is, indeed, wearing slippers. 

“So change them!” Gemma says, exasperated.

“You go to Tesco!” Michal argues.

“I’m in my slippers, too,” Gemma says. “ _And_ Harry. And he’s our guest, so we’re not making him run to Tesco.”

“I don’t mind running to Tesco,” Harry pipes in. Michal smiles triumphantly, and Gemma glares at him.

“No, Michal is,” Gemma says, closing her cookbook and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Am not,” Michal says.

“Are so.”

“Am not!

“Fine! We’ll both go,” Gemma says, grabbing Michal’s arm and pulling him out of the kitchen, ignoring his indignant protests. “Harry, you watch the roast.”

“I’ll watch the roast,” Harry says, looking at the hunk of raw beef sitting in a dish inside Gemma’s sink, defrosting. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.”

With that, Gemma and Michal are gone, but Harry can still hear them laughing outside the door. It’s sweet, he thinks, that the only time he’s heard either of them raise their voices this weekend is over a silly Tesco debate. He and Louis have that debate often, too, but it’s usually a lot more complicated for them.

Slippers are hardly the biggest factor in deciding who’s got to go out to get a missing ingredient for dinner; it depends on whose public house they’re at, or where they are in the world, whether they’re supposed to be there or whether being spotted in public would be disastrous. It’s about making sure no one knows that they’re together, or that they’re even in the vicinity of where the other has last been spotted. It’s about which one of them is supposed to be MIA this week, which one of them has a public narrative that aligns with their location, which one of them is less likely to be expected at a place like Tesco at 1:00 in the afternoon on a Sunday. For Gemma and Michal, it’s a matter of who should change out of their slippers, and if they can’t decide, they go together. Harry wishes anything in his life was even sort of that easy.

Harry takes his eyes off the roast for two minutes to grab his phone but, as expected, the roast does not run away. He sits down on the kitchen floor, despite the abundance of open seats at Gemma’s dining table, and scrolls through his notifications, wondering if Louis’s answered his text yet, by any chance.

It’s about 5:00 in the morning in LA, and Harry’s last text is still unread. He sighs and locks his phone, staring at the wall for about 30 seconds before he unlocks his phone and checks the message again.

_Still thinking about you… I know you’re sleeping but I miss you! Wake up soon PLEASE xxx_

Once the text is sent, he sets his phone down on the cool linoleum floor and slouches back until he’s lying down, staring up at the ceiling. Two weeks. Two more weeks until he sees Louis again. Two weeks and he’ll be home. 

It doesn’t matter where in the world they are; when Harry’s with Louis, he can be home in a country he’s never even heard of before. Just a few months ago, Harry came home to him in Paris, when they decided to meet up for a secret weekend getaway in the city of love. Even more recently, Harry came home to him in Rome, when Harry was there for work and Louis happened to be stunting in the vicinity. All Harry wants in the world right now, as much as he loves Gemma’s company, is to go home to Louis, wherever and whenever he can get it.

Louis will be home in two weeks, but that feels like forever at the moment, so Harry grabs his phone again before long and types out another text.

_Can we FaceTime when you wake up?_

Louis still doesn’t answer, of course, because it’s only been about ten minutes since his last text, but Harry stares at the screen for another few minutes, anyway, until the front door of the flat opens again and Gemma and Michal come giggling back into the kitchen.

“Why are you on the floor?” Gemma asks, pretending like she’s going to step on his face with her newly re-slippered foot.

“We got peppercorns,” Michal says, shaking the bottle at Harry. “It just occurred to me we should have gone through the rest of the ingredients before we went to Tesco.”

“If we’re missing anything else, _you’re_ going back alone to get it,” Gemma says, snatching the peppercorns out of his hand and putting them down on the counter with the other ingredients. “Right, olive oil!”

Harry scrambles up off the floor, but Michal nearly shoves him back over again in his attempt to get to the olive oil first. Thus goes the rest of the early afternoon, Harry’s phone forgotten on the floor somewhere, until they’ve got a delicious looking roast ready to go in the oven and Harry’s homesickness is the furthest thing from his mind. 

-

After dinner, Gemma insists on playing some board game she got last Christmas, and Harry’s the one who brings the alcohol into it. They’re all tipsy by early evening, and Harry’s competitive nature keeps him thoroughly distracted until he inevitably wins the game, but the second his brain becomes unoccupied, he checks his phone to see if Louis has responded yet. 

He hasn’t.

Harry whines, clicking over to his world clock app to check the time in LA. Louis should definitely be awake by now, and Harry’s going to be pissed if Louis forgot to text him. He decides to send one last text, just in case Louis needs a little reminder.

_I MISS YOU!!!!_

He drops his phone into his lap while Gemma sets up the game for another round, but before she can finish, Harry’s phone buzzes against his thigh. He scrambles to pick it up, opening Louis’s text immediately.

_You are so pathetic!! Love you and I miss you too !!!_

Harry pouts, replying with a quick _Can we FaceTime?_ before Louis has even had a chance to put his phone down.

_Can we in a few hours ?? Woke up late and am rushing to studio_

_:(((( Fine. Don’t forget to text! You are not off the hook!_

Louis doesn’t answer again, so Harry puts his phone away, figuring he has at least a few hours before Louis will text him again. He’s been waiting all day for that brief interaction, and now that he’s had it, he only wants more.

He loses the second round of Gemma’s game and then pretends to storm off to his room in a fit of rage, but he really just wants to be alone when Louis finally calls. He brushes his teeth and changes out of his jeans and just as he’s climbing into bed, his phone lights up with a text from Louis.

_Heading home !! I’ll call in 10? X_

Harry responds with a grinning emoji and tucks himself up under the covers, scrolling through Twitter until the screen fills up with Louis’s contact photo, and he accepts the call instantly. 

“Woah,” Louis says, his pixelated image appearing on Harry’s screen. “It didn’t even ring.”

“I was waiting around,” Harry says. “How’s your day?”

“Only just started,” Louis chuckles. “Spent an hour at the radio station, and I have a meeting in, like, thirty minutes that I don’t want to go to,” he says, munching loudly on something. 

“Don’t go,” Harry says. “Stay here and talk to me. Better yet, find your ass on a plane back to London.”

“I wish,” Louis chuckles sadly. “LA is nice, but it’s no fun when you’re not here.”

“Two weeks,” Harry says. “Two weeks, and I’ll be home.”

Louis frowns at him, shaking his head. “No, _I’ll_ be home,” he says, confused. “You’re already there.”

“It’s not home when you’re not here,” Harry says, and even he can hear how pathetically sappy it sounds, but Louis only rolls his eyes a little.

“I can’t deal with you,” Louis says, but he sounds fond, regardless.

“I love you!” Harry says, pulling the phone close to his face. “I love you!” he says again, louder.

“Dork,” Louis mutters, trying to pretend like Harry can’t see the way he’s smiling.

Harry pouts, glaring at Louis’s fuzzy little image until Louis cracks.

“I love you too, weirdo.”

Harry grins, showing the phone camera all of his teeth. Louis laughs and pulls his phone closer to smack his lips off the camera, and then both of them giggle like children.

“Right,” Louis sighs after a minute, “I need to get going or I’ll be late to another thing today.”

“No,” Harry says, pouting once more. “Already?”

“I’ll text you again when I get back, yeah? I’ll have a bit more time to talk after this meeting, so if you’re still up, I’ll call then. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry says, heart already sinking.

“Okay,” Louis says. “I love you, Hazza, a lot.”

“I love you a lot,” Harry says quietly.

“Bye, baby,” Louis says, blowing him one more kiss and then ending the call.

“Bye,” Harry says to his homescreen, sighing as he drops his phone onto the bedside table and turns over in the bed.

He tries valiantly to wait up for Louis’s call, but he’s never been very good at not sleeping when it’s possible for him to be sleeping. He’s dead to the world by the time his phone lights up with a text from Louis, and then another, and another, Louis ribbing him for having fallen asleep after all that trouble. He is asleep, though, and it’s one less sleep until Louis comes home, and as far as Harry’s concerned, any way he can make the time go faster is a pretty good idea.


	11. treat people with kindness

The wallpaper on the far wall of the living room is alive. It’s a swirling, textured pattern of branches and leaves on a plain beige background, but at some point during the course of the night, it’s come alive, shifting and growing and following the path of Harry’s gaze, creating new patterns as if he’s manipulating it like dragging his finger through sand. It’s captivating, the magic of it, and Harry can’t even drag his eyes off of it long enough to alert anyone else to look over and watch it happen. He’s sure that if he breaks his concentration, it’ll stop, and it’s far too pretty to stop.

“Harry,” someone’s voice cuts through the loud tinkling sound echoing through Harry’s head. He wasn’t aware of the sound before right now, but it almost sounds like a guitar, high pitched and far away. “Harry,” the voice says again, the syllables long and drawn out, punctuated by a giggle. Harry blinks and looks away from the wall, finding Mitch beside him, gearing up to reach out and tug on his hair.

“What’d you think about that?” Mitch says, grinning like he’s found something magical, as well.

Harry giggles, mostly because he has no earthly idea what Mitch is asking him about, but the giggle comes alive the same way the wallpaper is still swimming in his periphery, taking hold of him and forcing out another laugh, louder and brighter. It blends in with the tinkling of the distant guitar and it sounds so pretty, Harry can’t stop laughing, and then Mitch joins in, too, hunching over the guitar perched on his lap and adding his laughter to the symphony. 

It’s only then that Harry realizes that the sound of the guitar is only in his head; Mitch isn’t actively playing, and Harry’s own guitar is propped up against the piano on the other side of the room. He sobers up a little, trying to listen to the song happening in his brain.

“Play that,” Harry says, pointing vaguely into the air, in the direction he feels like the sound is coming from.

“What?” Mitch asks, still giggling quietly. 

“That sound!” Harry laughs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to keep listening. 

Mitch laughs, too, and then he starts playing, somehow matching the tune perfectly with the song Harry’s imagining. Harry gasps, looking up at him, jaw hanging open while Mitch gently pulls the melody straight out of Harry’s brain. It’s like a string of light, golden and sparkling, feeding out of Harry’s ears and straight into Mitch’s fingers, glowing from the body of the guitar in waves of sound. Maybe the string is moving in the opposite direction, now that Harry thinks about it, but he can’t really tell, and he can’t really be bothered, anyhow.

He stands up, and his legs feel like jelly. His whole body does, actually, like all of his bones are made of marshmallow, and nothing in the world could hurt him. He starts dancing without meaning to, twirling around the room to the beat of Mitch’s song. The wallpaper reaches out for him, like so many wriggling fingers of adoring fans, and he floats over to graze his hand over it, all the tendrils of the design following him, left aching in his wake.

Mitch is laughing again, playing and laughing, and Harry thinks he might be laughing at his dancing, but his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t feel like opening them to find out. He likes it, though, likes the sound of Mitch’s laughter, especially if he’s the one causing it, so he dances a little more, puts a little more of his body into it, undulating around the living room in swirling movements like the wallpaper, like he’s gone inside of it, become one with it. 

He’s singing something, too, dancing and singing and laughing and he’s so, _so_ fucking high, he’s never tripped like this in his life and he never wants to come back down, feels warmth and light emanating from his mouth every time he sings, dripping down his body and soaking him in radiance. 

He hears Mitch gasp distantly, and he’s aware that the guitar stops, but the sound carries on in Harry’s mind. Mitch isn’t laughing anymore, but Harry doesn’t care; he’s still singing, warmth still dripping from his lips, until someone grabs him by the shoulders and he snaps his eyes open once more.

Mitch is right there, still smiling but also worried, eyes glued to Harry’s mouth. For a second, Harry thinks Mitch is going to kiss him, and he pulls away an inch, sputtering another laugh. Something flecks over Mitch’s face, and Harry almost expects it to be the light he can still feel pouring out of his mouth, but it’s not. It’s dark, and when Mitch flinches and wipes at his cheek, it smears against his skin.

“You’re bleeding,” Mitch says, swiping his already dirtied fingers under Harry’s bottom lip. He comes away with more of that dark liquid on his fingertips, and Harry’s absolutely gutted to find that it isn’t liquid luminescence.

Harry tries to speak, but he just gurgles a little, a little more blood dripping from his mouth. He frowns, sticking his finger between his lips to try and find the source, but it turns out that everything inside of his mouth is wet and warm and throbbing, suddenly, and he winces as he pulls his finger out.

Mitch is gone, and Harry’s alone in the living room, blood all down the front of his Rolling Stones t-shirt and coating his left index finger. He doesn’t really know what to do, so he just keeps standing there, watching the wallpaper, which is moving a little more frantically now.

All of a sudden, Louis swims into his field of vision, and Harry grins. He’d forgotten that Louis was even home, but now that he’s here, all Harry can think to do is reach out and hug him. Louis backs away, putting a hand out to hold him back, and Harry pouts.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis mutters, grabbing Harry’s arm and tugging him out of the living room.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, but a little more blood gets in the way and trickles down his chin and then down his neck. He giggles at the feeling, wiping at it with the back of his hand and then wiping his hand on his shirt.

“You bit your fucking tongue off, dumbass,” Louis says, pulling him into the downstairs toilet and making him sit down on the closed lid of the toilet seat. 

“I what?” Harry asks, reaching into his mouth again to touch his tongue. Yeah, he supposes his tongue does hurt quite a bit, but he’s almost positive that it’s still there.

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis hisses, snatching the hand towel out of the ring on the wall and pulling Harry’s hand out of his mouth. “Open,” he says firmly, so Harry does, and then Louis jams the towel right into his mouth.

Harry gags a little at the feeling of cotton filling his mouth, tears tickling at his eyes. Once he recovers, though, he just starts laughing again, pressing his tongue against the towel and gagging again, repeating the process. Louis looks like he wants to murder him, which is only making the situation even funnier in Harry’s brain.

“Idiot,” Louis mutters, but then Harry lets out another muffled laugh through the towel, and Louis’s lips quirk up. “God, you’re so stupid.”

Harry laughs a little harder, biting down on the towel and squeezing his eyes shut while he cackles. Louis starts laughing too, finally, getting a new towel and wetting it with warm water in the sink. He cleans Harry’s face and neck as best he can, and Harry laughs all the while, Louis’s face glimmering in and out of his vision.

He leans forward when Louis comes close enough to kiss, but the towel is in the way, so Harry ends up just sort of smashing his nose against Louis’s. Louis groans and straightens up, checking his nose in the mirror for blood, and then glaring at Harry again. “If I don’t fucking knock you out right now,” Louis says, but he’s still smiling, and Harry can’t stop fucking laughing.

“‘Oo-ee,” Harry says, like he doesn’t have a towel stuffed between his jaw. “I ‘ow oo.”

Louis frowns, pulling the towel out of Harry’s mouth. “What?”

“I love you,” Harry says, grinning at him like he doesn’t have blood between every single one of his teeth and a fresh trickle threatening to drip out of the corner of his mouth.

“This is a nightmare,” Louis says, pushing a clean corner of the towel into Harry’s mouth. “I’m literally going to have nightmares about you smiling with a mouthful of blood and saying you love me.”

Harry howls, doubling over on the toilet and laughing into his knees. Louis can’t help but laugh, too, sitting down on the floor beside the toilet and waiting for Harry to calm himself down.

“I don’t even know what to do for you,” Louis admits, still giggling softly, like Harry’s laugh is infectious to him, as much as it is to Harry himself. “Should I call an ambulance? Should I drive you to A&E?”

“‘Uh ‘e,” Harry says, reaching down for him.

“What?” Louis asks.

Harry grunts in frustration, clambering down off the toilet and right into Louis’s lap. He doesn’t really fit, but Louis only complains a little, letting Harry wrap himself around him. “‘Uh ‘e,” he demands again.

“Hug you,” Louis repeats, holding Harry close. “Got it.”

They sit there for a while, waiting for something to happen. Louis pulls the towel out of Harry’s mouth every now and again to check the bleeding, cleaning up what he can and replacing the towel before the blood can start dripping again. That’s a lot of blood for one tongue, Harry thinks, and spends approximately fifteen minutes giggling into Louis’s neck about it.

When the bleeding finally, finally stops, Louis drags Harry up off of the floor and manhandles him out of his ruined t-shirt, leaving it in a ball in the sink and then leading Harry out of the bathroom. He brings him all the way upstairs, through their bedroom and into the ensuite, deposits him in the shower and turns the water on to rinse off the rest of the blood. As soon as Harry’s clean, Louis pulls him out and towels him off, and then tucks him into bed with a face cloth in case his mouth starts bleeding again. Harry just giggles passively through the whole ordeal, but the effect of the shrooms is finally starting to wear off a little, and he’s quite tired. 

Louis disappears for a few minutes and then comes back with a bag of ice, making Harry sit up and stick his tongue out so that Louis can hold the ice against it. Louis is annoyed, Harry knows, but Harry’s still tripping just enough that he isn’t worried about it quite yet. Louis holds him, regardless, lets him cuddle close and keeps icing his injured tongue until Harry falls asleep on his shoulder, snoozing soundly while the drugs work their way out of his system.

-

Harry wakes up in almost the same position, but they’re lying down now, and he’s resting on Louis’s chest, the bag of room temperature water still in Louis’s limp hand. Harry sits up and yawns, but the immediate throbbing pain in his mouth has him rocketing out of bed and into the ensuite to check his tongue in the mirror.

Sure enough, the tip of his tongue is wounded and swollen, still raw and throbbing a bit. He whimpers quietly, running some cold water from the tap to fill his mouth and wash out the taste of blood and cotton.

Louis finds him a minute or so later, leaning in the doorway to the ensuite, looking sleepy and judgmental. Harry pouts at him, and Louis just smiles, reaching for his hand and leading him downstairs.

Mitch is nowhere to be found, and Harry has no idea when he left or where he went, but he just hopes he ended up getting home alright. Louis makes him a smoothie for breakfast with a metal straw that feels quite nice when Harry rests his tongue against it, and they spend the rest of the morning cuddling quietly on the sofa, watching whatever happens to be on TV. 

Harry probably won’t be able to talk properly for a week; he thinks Louis might be quite okay with that, though, considering the way he keeps rolling his eyes every time Harry tries to slur out his appreciation for his help with the whole thing. He’s pretty lucky, he thinks, to have a partner that will help him clean up his bitten-off tongue and still cuddle him the next day, but maybe he should stay away from shrooms for a while.


	12. fine line

Louis’s wrists are so delicate, his bones are so fragile and Harry almost wants to feel them break in his hand when he reaches out to stop Louis from walking away from him again, but he could never, he could _never_ hurt this boy, even as much as he hates him sometimes.

“Let. Go. Of. Me,” Louis snarls, trying to tear his arm from Harry’s grip. Harry doesn’t let him go, though, using Louis’s tense muscles as an advantage to drag him closer.

“Stop running,” Harry says. He’s trying to sound calm, collected, but it comes out lower and harder than he anticipated. Louis narrows his eyes, and Harry knows he’s nowhere close to getting him down off the ledge.

“I’m not running,” Louis says, still glaring. “Fucking _let go of me_.”

Harry swallows hard and lets go of him, foolishly believing that Louis won’t run.

Of course, Louis runs.

He makes it halfway down the stairs before Harry’s brain catches up. He’s heading for the front door, but Harry’s legs are long enough that he gets there first, arms wrapping around Louis’s waist and hauling him back. Louis screams like Harry’s hurting him, and out of fear that he is, Harry lets go, but he keeps himself firmly between Louis and the door.

“I hate you,” Louis spits, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Let me out, or I’ll — I’ll —”

“It’s pouring rain,” Harry says, and somehow, he’s finally achieved that calm tone he was going for earlier. “You don’t even have shoes on. You’ll catch your death, Lou.”

“ _Good_!” Louis shrieks; his eyes are red like he’s going to cry, and Harry still doesn’t even know what’s wrong. “I hope I fucking do!”

“Stop,” Harry says again, reaching out for him. Louis flinches away, turning his back to Harry and sweeping his eyes around the room, looking for his next escape route. He’s shaking, Harry can see him trembling through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and Harry knows that Louis is so completely out of his mind with whatever’s bothering him that Harry’s not going to be able to get a coherent word out of him for hours, if not the rest of the night.

Sometimes, when Louis’s freaked out like this, Harry can get him in a bear hug and let him cry and scream and thrash until he’s exhausted, until he’s all worn out and then finally, in a tiny voice with leaky eyes, he’ll tell Harry what the problem is. Right now, though, Harry thinks that if he even brushes a finger against Louis’s skin Louis will snap, might just wind up and knock him out for even thinking about it. So he lowers his hand, takes a step back, and levels Louis with the softest, most open expression he can muster in hopes it’ll break through Louis’s panic.

It doesn’t work. Louis locks eyes with him and then crumbles, hunching in on himself and turning away again. He’s like a scared animal, backing away and whimpering like he’s trapped, like Harry’s holding him hostage.

The storm that’s been building all night (the real one outside, not the one in Louis’s eyes) finally seems to be upon them; the front hall flashes and then the whole house roars, shaking the floor under Harry’s socked feet. Louis jumps and turns to him again, eyes wide, and for half a foolish second, Harry thinks Louis’s finally about to ask to be comforted.

“Come here,” Harry says, before Louis has to ask. “Come here, Louis, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Fuck you,” Louis says, leaping back on the defensive like nothing happened at all. 

“What did I do?” Harry asks, fighting the frustration building in his chest.

“You-” another rumble of thunder cuts off Louis’s angry growling, overpowering him with the force of its own aggression. 

The front hall flashes again and the lights flicker, breaking both of their concentration this time. Harry looks up, willing the power to stay on, and the lights settle with another clap of noise.

“Just leave me alone,” Louis hisses, finally spotting his escape in the form of the door to the garage. He cuts through the mudroom and then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

The sound of the door aligns perfectly with another flash of lightning and then the power cuts out for good, plunging the whole house into darkness all at once. Harry wants to cry, his heart racing as he rushes through the mudroom and pulls the door open.

It’s pitch black in the garage, but Louis’s headlights illuminate the room a moment later. He’s punching the button on his sun visor to open the garage door like a madman, but it’s no use; the power is out, and there’s no way to get the doors open with no electricity. Harry stands in the doorway, watching silently, as Louis gives up and cuts the engine, putting his head down against the steering wheel and letting out a muffled scream of pure anguish. Harry feels the first tear drip down his cheek and Louis screams again, but this time it dissolves quickly into a hiccup and then a sob, and his headlights stay on just long enough to break Harry’s heart.

Harry suppresses a hiccup of his own and turns away, going back inside and closing the door silently. The least he can do is leave Louis alone like he asked, he guesses, and he takes comfort in the fact that Louis can’t actually get out of the house while he’s in this state.

His hands are still shaking like leaves in a storm as he shuffles back through the front hall and into the living room, the room swimming through the tears in his eyes as lightning flashes again outside. He chokes on a tiny sob as he goes to grab the box of candles he keeps in the linen closet in the downstairs washroom, placing them strategically around the room and then grabbing one of Louis’s many lighters from the kitchen to go about lighting all the candles. By the time he’s done, the living room is glowing dimly with flickering light and it smells faintly like a Yankee Candle shop; between the candles and the sound of the storm raging outside, it should be peaceful, maybe even almost romantic, but Harry’s poor heart is still aching too much to feel anything but sorrow.

He sits down at the piano, because he’s got nothing else to do, and sometimes the best way to distract himself is to make a little noise to drown everything else out. He rests his hands over the keys and tries to play something soft, but his hands are still shaking too much to play it properly. He keeps hammering out sour notes and it makes him flinch every time, the lump in his throat growing a little bit with each wrong chord his fingers try to shape. 

Eventually he gives up, closing the cover of the piano and folding his arms on the ledge it forms, putting his head down and letting himself cry. He feels awful, and he doesn’t even know why; he still hasn’t got a clue what Louis’s so upset about, and he doubts he’s going to find out any time soon. Louis’s been reclusive and weird all day, staring at his phone and giving him short answers like Harry pissed him off somehow, but Harry can’t think of a single thing he did to warrant this type of venom. It was when Harry knocked on the door to Louis’s writing room to ask if he wanted dinner that Louis fully lost it, started yelling and shrieking and throwing papers around, shouting about something that Harry did or said or didn’t do or say — Harry can’t even really remember, he was so startled, and before he knew it, Louis was shoving him out of the doorway and stomping off down the hall to get away from him. It’s not the first time Louis’s worked himself into a panic over something that turns out to have been nothing the whole time, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

At the end of the day, after all of the shit they both go through together and apart, the only person Harry wants to be with is Louis. They’ve discussed it, of course, had many a tearful conversation about giving in and breaking up. Hell, half of their own supporters already believe that they’re broken up, it probably wouldn’t even make a difference if it happened for real. Harry can’t, though, he cannot even entertain that thought because no, _no_ , if he can’t have Louis, he doesn’t want anything at all.

His mind keeps playing back the images of Louis flinching away from him, of Louis running from him, Louis telling him to leave him alone and trying to leave the house altogether. It wrenches a sob from somewhere deep in Harry’s heart and he sits up slowly, wondering if he should go back to the garage and try to get Louis to talk to him, or if he should keep his distance until Louis decides he’s ready to talk. When he looks up, though, he finds Louis standing about a foot away from the piano, his eyes wet and his hair a mess from pulling at it.

Harry jumps so hard he nearly knocks the piano bench over backwards; he’s always been easy to startle, but Louis has never been this quick to come back from a meltdown of this caliber. Harry watches him nervously, wondering if Louis’s going to hug him or snap his neck when he steps closer, but Louis just looks away and then sits down hard on the bench beside him. Harry tenses up, out of his depth, until Louis presses into his side a little bit, asking to be held. Harry obliges immediately, wrapping his arm around Louis’s shoulders and letting Louis curl in closer.

They stay like that for a while, the sound of the thunder outside getting further and further away until eventually only the rain remains, still coming down hard against the roof. Louis is so still Harry worries that he’s fallen asleep, until finally Louis puts one tentative hand out and pushes the piano cover open. Harry presses his face into Louis’s hair, and Louis lets his fingers settle over the keys, playing one gentle, lingering chord.

Harry sniffles and rests his free hand over the keys an octave up, playing a weak little melody over Louis’s chord. Louis hiccups and turns his face to press his nose against Harry’s nape, kissing tiredly at his skin and then releasing a sigh. Harry’s skin prickles with goosebumps, but he pulls Louis closer, wrapping both arms around him and closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, sticking one cold finger through the hole in Harry’s jeans to touch his skin. Harry jumps, but Louis pretends not to notice. “I don’t know why I freaked out. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s quiet for a few minutes, working up his nerve. “That’s not fair.”

Louis sits up a little, meeting Harry’s eye. He looks nervous, like Harry’s about to scold him, but Harry doesn’t even have the energy.

“You don’t get to treat me like that and then just say, ‘sorry, dunno what happened.’ That’s not how it works. We either talk about this, or-” he shrugs in a jerky movement, lips pulling down at the corners with the effort it takes not to cry.

Louis takes a shaky breath and then sighs, wrapping his arms around Harry’s middle. “Sometimes I just — I don’t know. I think too much, I guess.”

Harry waits for him to go on, but he doesn’t, so Harry sighs and starts to stand up. Louis clings to him, though, whining until he settles again.

“I-” Louis tries, but something breaks, and he presses his face into Harry’s shoulder and sobs. “I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel, like so matter how hard or fast or long I run I can’t fucking get anywhere, I’m just stuck and you’re — you have the whole world at your feet and it seems like you don’t even have to try, it just comes to you, you just _have_ it and you deserve it, I know you’ve earned it, but I can’t — sometimes I just can’t-”

“I cannot have this fight anymore,” Harry says, pushing away from him. “For fuck’s sake, Louis, we do this all the bloody-”

“I know!” Louis cries, sitting up and reaching for him again. “I know it’s not fair, and I’m being unreasonable and I know it’s not your fault-”

“And yet you still yell and scream at me and push me away and act like it is my fault,” Harry says.

“Will you shut up?” Louis bites out. “I’m not mad that you’re successful. I’m not mad that you’re living your dream, it’s — fuck, Harry, it’s my dream too, you know? Watching you out there, seeing you shine, getting to witness you ruling the world and still somehow being the one you come home to at the end of the day? It’s fucking _incredible_ , Harry. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Harry frowns at him, blinking away the tears in his eyes to get a better look at him.

“But you’re so — sometimes I feel like you’re so far away from me,” Louis says, his voice tiny. “I think about how we were, how we used to be, and I just — I feel like I’m not — I feel like-”

“I’m right here,” Harry says, voice breaking in the middle.

“You are,” Louis nods, reaching out to touch his face. “But you’re also, like, everywhere.”

Harry frowns, shaking his head. “What-”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Louis sighs. “And I don’t know why it makes me so angry sometimes. I know it’s not fair, and I’m sorry. I just — it’s so hard for me to-”

“I know,” Harry says, reaching out to pull him close again. “It’s hard for you to open up. I wish it wasn’t,” he mumbles.

Louis hugs him, tucking his face into his neck and sniffling again. “Sometimes I just — I wonder why you haven’t, I don’t know, given up on me, I guess.”

“Because I love you,” Harry says, squeezing him tight. “And it doesn’t matter how much you yell and scream at me and tell me I’m — whatever,” he says, “I’m always going to be here. Right here. Even when you’re in LA and I’m in London, or you’re on Earth and I’m on Mars. I am never going to be too far away for you to reach me.”

Louis presses his fingers hard against Harry’s spine as if to make sure he’s telling the truth, and then Harry feels him exhale the last of the tension from his body. “That doesn’t mean I’m not still going to worry sometimes. I don’t like sharing you.”

Harry smiles, and it feels so good to smile that he can’t help but laugh, as well, which startles Louis into looking up at him.

“What’s funny?” he frowns, poking at Harry’s chest.

“You thinking that I might expect you to stop worrying,” Harry hums. “You wouldn’t be Louis if you weren’t worrying. It’s what I love about you.”

“Weird thing to love,” Louis says under his breath, dropping his eyes.

“Yeah, you are,” Harry teases, pressing a kiss to Louis’s nose when Louis looks up to glare at him. “But I mean it. I love every part of you, even the part of you that freaks yourself out and takes it out on me. It’s — I mean, c’mon. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we? We’ve beat all the odds, Louis, every single one of them. I haven’t lost you yet, and I don’t intend to, ever,” he says, pulling Louis back against his chest.

Louis is quiet for a few minutes, letting Harry trace careful shapes against his back. The piano bench is hardly the most comfortable place for a cuddle, but Harry’s afraid that if he gets up now Louis will just shatter, and that’s the last thing he wants when they’re so close to working this out.

After a while, Louis pulls away to rub at his face, wiping away the last traces of his tears and then turning his tired eyes back on Harry. Harry smiles at him comfortingly and then stands up, pulling Louis up with him.

“C’mon,” he says, leading Louis away from the piano. “Let’s put all these candles out, and then we can go to bed.”

Louis accepts the task wordlessly, turning away to start blowing out the candles Harry left around the piano. Harry puts out all the candles around the other side of the room and they meet again near the bottom of the stairs, where Louis laces his fingers with Harry’s and pulls him up behind him.

Neither of them speak as they get ready for bed, ignoring the fact that it’s probably still too early to go to sleep, and they never even had dinner. Louis pulls Harry right into his side once they’re both tucked up under the covers, and Harry curls around him the way he’s been doing since he was 16 years old and ready to risk everything in the world for a love he knew was going to be worth it.

As they settle in, and with the rain still pelting against the roof and the windows and drowning out everything but the two of them, Harry thinks back to the first time they curled up like this so long ago, safe in Louis’s single bed with the world ready to ruin them the second they slipped up, and he hears Louis’s voice, 18 years old and as scared as he’s ever been, telling him that everything would be okay.

He wonders now if Louis believed that when it said it back then, if tonight is any indication. He was right, though, he was absolutely right, and it feels like they’ve come full circle when Harry stretches up to press his mouth against Louis’s ear to give those words back to him, so he can hold onto them until the next time they need to bring them out. Louis shivers, drags Harry a little closer, and Harry says it again, and again, and again until Louis believes him. It takes a while, but eventually Harry feels Louis open up and take the words right into his core, right where he needs them most, and he falls asleep with Harry’s voice echoing inside his head, “We'll be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> (pssst- now go back and re-read the first chapter :D)
> 
> if you liked the fic, you can reblog it [here](https://suspendrs.tumblr.com/post/190001584398/fine-line-by-suspendrs-21k-theres-still-a-lot).
> 
> [faq](https://suspendrs-fics.tumblr.com/faq)
> 
> (yes i’ll probably do this again for Walls but i won’t have time until the summer so don’t even start)
> 
> please do not translate, repost, or recreate this work in any way. thank you!


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